Truths and Consequences
by ferndoyle
Summary: Peter is off on retreat and Assumpta to reconnect with Leo. Can a conversation with someone from home change the path each of them chooses to follow? Begins shortly following Episode 3.3: Changing Times.
1. Retreating

The mist still hung over the River Aingeal as Assumpta Fitzgerald stepped through the bright blue front door of her pub with a barrel her customers had emptied only a few hours ago. The air was so thick she almost did not notice the solitary figure sitting on his backpack, waiting for the early bus to Cilldargen. Peter. She had thought he'd be leaving later in the day, after early mass, would not have ventured out of her kitchen if she'd thought he might be about.

Assumpta very nearly ducked back inside, but instead she drew herself up and set her chin firmly. She'd be damned if she'd let Peter Clifford – _Father_ Clifford – keep her from going about her day as usual. Although, truth be told, she was getting rather an earlier start than usual, due to not having slept at all well. Every time she was about to drift off, that last real conversation with Peter would start to echo in her head – the one where he told her he was going away. On retreat. To renew his vocation, become a better priest. Assumpta's mouth twisted just remembering.

She kept thinking of all the biting things she could have said, beginning with, "Go to hell" or "Why should I care?" Why, of all things, did she have to go and cry? But the truth was that, whether she should or not, she _did_ care and thought Peter did, too.

"Stupid!" she chided herself for the millionth time and set the barrel on the curb with a clang.

The young priest's eyes, which had been closed in an attempt at prayer, flew open at the sound. His head turned involuntarily toward the pub, and he caught a glimpse of dark red hair and a bit of green sweater before the door swung shut. He heard the bolt slide into place. Clutching at the rosary in his long fingers, he desperately tried to quell the familiar quickening of his heartbeat.

_Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee…_

The feeling drained from him, making way for others, equally familiar: guilt, doubt, grief.

The drone of the ancient bus pulled his attention back toward the street. _You're doing the right thing, _he repeated to himself as he shouldered his pack and boarded the bus. He forced his eyes to stay on the beads in his lap until the buildings of the village were out of view, but his lips refused to form the words to any of the prayers he knew so well.

The stones under Peter's bare feet were beginning to feel quite warm from the late morning sun. He shifted his weight on the rocks, suddenly aware of having sat in the same position for too long. How long he wasn't sure. He'd walked down to the sea directly from matins and had been idly watching the waves and the gulls and letting his thoughts float around as they would. It was the most at peace he'd felt since he arrived on retreat…or for some time before then, really.

The peace came from not trying to accomplish anything, he decided. Not trying to know what was right, what God wanted of him, what he himself wanted. He stood and stretched the stiffness from his muscles, put on his shoes, threw his black jacket over his shoulder, and started the hike back up the hill to the retreat center.

The front room of the main house was so dim after the bright seaside morning that Peter had to pause inside the door to let his eyes become accustomed to the low light. The first thing he saw clearly was one of the resident nuns approaching him.

"I've a telephone message for you, Father," she said, not quite hiding her disapproval as she handed him a small piece of paper. Outside contact was not expressly forbidden for priests on retreat, but it was certainly discouraged.

"Thank you, Sister," said Peter.

When she had returned to her work in the office he read the neat script on the paper, which simply said, "Mr. Kearney, Gallagher's, Abbey Street." Brendan? How strange. Was something wrong at home in Ballykissangel? How had Brendan found him? Only Father Mac, the parish priest, knew exactly where Peter had gone. Peter turned on his heel and was back out in the sunshine, headed for Gallagher's Pub, which he had passed not twenty minutes earlier on his way back from the waterfront.

Inside Gallagher's Brendan Kearney sat nursing his second pint of stout and wondering exactly how long a priest on retreat might take to come back from his morning walk and if Peter was likely to get his message at all. The nun he'd spoken to had been a bit icy on the phone, particularly after he'd given the name of a local pub as his contact information. A slice of light fell across his newspaper as the door opened. With relief he looked up to see Peter step through.

Peter's eyes automatically went to the far end of the bar, Brendan's customary spot at Fitzgerald's. Brendan's chuckle drew his attention and he headed towards his friend's table with a slightly sheepish look that soon returned to the expression of concern he'd been wearing when he came in.

"Force of habit, eh Father?" said Brendan, clapping Peter on the shoulder.

"Brendan, what are you doing here? Are you all right? Is…something wrong at home?" _Is Assumpta all right?_ he wanted to ask, but didn't.

"Fine, fine." Brendan had not expected Peter to be so alarmed and began to wonder if he should have come. He heaved a sigh and sat down, motioning Peter into the chair across the table. "I just need a bit of advice."

Peter sat, looking calmer, if a bit confused. "Did you try Father Mac? I'm really supposed to be off the job at present."

Brendan's face reddened. "For God's sake, Peter. In case you hadn't noticed, I'm not exactly what you'd call a regular at confession! It's a friend I'm wanting, not a bloody priest!"

Peter held up his hands, laughing. "All right, all right! In that case, I think I'd better have a pint of lager. The strongest thing I've been able to get here till now is coffee." He walked to the bar and returned with his pint, which he sipped appreciatively. "So, since we've established that you haven't spoken with Father Mac, how on earth did you find me?"

Brendan grinned. "Lucky guess. I only know of two retreat centers that the Church runs nearby, and I figured that, finances being what they are, Father Mac wasn't likely to spring for Fiji or the Riviera."

Peter snorted.

"So, I decided I'd just try calling and found you on the second try." His face turned apologetic. "I hope I'm not out of line. I sort of had the idea you weren't completely sold on the whole retreat idea in the first place."

Peter sighed heavily. "To tell the truth, it's great to see someone from home. And to take a bit of a break from all the deep thought and soul searching. I feel like I'm spinning my wheels."

Brendan nodded. It was the second time Peter had referred to Ballykissangel as _home_. "I see they make you wear the uniform even at the seaside," he commented with a nod towards Peter's black suit and collar.

Peter shook his head. "No. I'm just trying to dress the part."

Brendan's sharp eyes took in the slump of his shoulders. He took a pull on his stout. "Reminds me of my days as a poet," he said after a moment.

Peter looked up. "Poet, eh?"

Brendan nodded again. "After I graduated university I was determined to be the next great Irish bard. Moved to Dublin, lived in a garret, dressed all in black, tried to find a new way to say all the things all the poets before me had already said."

"And?"

"Well, it turns out they still make you pay rent, even for a garret, so I started tutoring. Loved it. Pretty soon I realized that all the time I was writing I was looking forward to when I'd be teaching instead. A position opened up at the National School in Ballykea and I jumped at it. The rest is history."

Peter considered this for a long moment. Then he shook his head, as if to clear it, and said, "Some friend I am! You come all the way here to ask advice and I've got you counseling me instead! What's going on?"

"Ah," said Brendan, "That. Well, it's about Siobhan, I suppose."

"Siobhan?"

"She's pregnant."

"Pregnant?" Peter repeated stupidly. He couldn't quite grasp why this news, while surprising, warranted a trip across the county for a heart to heart. Then the pieces fell into place. "Ohhh. And you're the father."

Brendan nodded. "You never know when a night of passion's going to come back and bite you in the arse."

Peter raised an eyebrow. "Is that how you feel about it?" He was trying mightily not to sound like a priest.

"I don't really know what I feel. She's shut me out, says she doesn't want anything from me."

"That doesn't sound like Siobhan."

Brendan sunk his head in his hands. "It's my fault. I reacted badly at first – it was a bit of a shock, after all. Now she's hurt and she's got her temper up – a bad combination in an Irish woman, you may have noticed."

Oh yes, Peter had.

"She's planning to have the baby though, to keep it?"

"Yes."

"Brave decision, especially in Ballykea."

"She's a brave woman."

"And what do you want?"

Brendan looked miserable. "Damned if I know. Next to Padraig, Siobhan's my oldest friend. Apart from this we've never been romantically involved, but there's no doubt I love her. I'd do anything for her…not to mention this baby. I'd about given up on having kids of my own." He looked up at Peter desperately. "I guess I do know what I want. I want to be a part of it. I don't deserve it, God knows, but I have to be a part of it."

Peter smiled. "Then you know what you have to do."

"She's going to chew me up and spit me out," Brendan groaned.

"That she will. But it may be worth it in the end."

"Thanks, Peter." Brendan drained his glass and stood. The men walked out of the pub back into the sunlight. At the train station they shook hands.

"Lucky kid," Peter commented.

"How's that?"

"To have you and Siobhan for parents. There'll be none better."

"I hope you're right." Brendan turned toward the platform, then back again. "Peter, it's not my place and it's not why I came, but…whatever you're going to do, do it quickly, will you?"

Peter looked at him blankly.

"Oh, come on, man. I've known Assumpta Fitzgerald all her life. She can take a lot and come back swinging," Brendan gave Peter a wry smile, "sometimes literally! But something's got the both of you at the breaking point and I don't care to see either of you broken."

He laid a hand on Peter's shoulder, then walked off to his train, leaving Peter standing dazed and shaken on the sidewalk.


	2. Advancing

"You've got to watch that one," Assumpta told Niamh Egan for the third time, indicating the delivery van disappearing around the corner. "He'll short you if you give him half a chance."

"He wouldn't dare." Niamh tucked a blanket around baby Kieran in his pram, then straightened. "Assumpta, it's going to be fine. I've got Bridie and Maeve to help out when I need them, Kevin will run errands, and your three down at the end of the bar there could practically run the place themselves anyway. I couldn't be happier you're going away."

"Well, that's very nice!"

"You know what I mean. I'll miss you terribly, of course, but it'll do you good to get out of Ballykea for awhile. See for yourself what Dublin's got to offer," She lowered her voice conspiratorially, "Or _who_!"

"Em, London, actually," Assumpta corrected her, speaking quickly before she lost her nerve. There. She'd said it. Now there was no going back. "Thanks a million, Niamh. I'll see you later, okay?" And she grabbed an armful of breakfast dishes from the nearest table and disappeared into the kitchen with them.

Niamh stared after her, eyes wide. "I never thought she'd do it," she told Kieran, who waved his tiny hands in reply. London. Leo. Her friend had finally come to her senses.

---

As Peter rose from his knees, his lanky form felt too big for the tiny chapel. Through the long window behind the altar he noticed the first glow of dawn creeping into the sky. A new day. Though he had not slept, he felt rested, serene, as though finally he was not fighting God anymore. Too bad there were so many others who were likely to be less forgiving.

Quietly, so as not to disturb the other guests, he returned to his room and changed into jeans and his favorite checked shirt. It did not take long to pack the few things he had brought with him. His black suit he folded carefully and placed in the bottom of his pack, the clerical collar tucked in the inside pocket of the jacket. The Bible his parents had given him when he entered seminary went at the top where he could reach it if he should need reassurance. He left a brief note for the director of the retreat center and walked through the early morning dimness to the station where he had seen Brendan off the day before.

On the train to Cilldargen Peter considered what he would say to Father Mac. It didn't really matter, he knew. This was not a conversation that would go well no matter what he said. He hoped to catch the parish priest before early mass, but the train was maddeningly slow, and the rectory was deserted by the time Peter jogged up the steps. He considered joining the congregants in the parish church, but knew it would mean missing the next train to Dublin, so he worded a letter as best he could and dropped it through the mail slot.

By ten-thirty he had reached Dublin Airport and used nearly all of his meager savings to book a seat on the next flight to Manchester. He started to phone his mother to let her know he was coming, but couldn't think of a way to explain this sudden visit without going into all the details, something he had no desire to do long-distance. In the end he turned away from the bank of public telephones without dialing a single number.

The dull ache behind his eyes told Peter that his sleepless night, on top of the many that had gone before, was beginning to catch up with him. He bought a coffee and a rather dubious looking pastry and sank into a seat near the gate, where he began to devour them as though he hadn't eaten in days. Possibly he hadn't. He couldn't seem to recall any specific meals he'd taken while on retreat.

Glancing up at the departures board, Peter felt his breath catch in his chest. A petite woman with auburn hair and an air of confidence was striding toward the information desk at the next gate. Assumpta? What on earth…? Peter was on his feet in a moment. _What will I say to her? Oh, God, I'm not ready for this one! _Peter covered the distance in no time and had just reached out his hand to touch her arm when she turned in his direction. She wore tortoiseshell glasses and was speaking quickly into a mobile phone.

"No, I don't think _you_ understand. There's no way I can be in Chicago by 3:00. There's a whole ocean in the way!"

Peter laughed aloud, drawing disdainful look from the red-haired woman who was most decidedly _not_ Assumpta. _You fool!_ he scolded himself. _You're so far gone you're seeing her everywhere! What would Assumpta be doing at the airport? And an American, no less!_

---

Mary Clifford stirred in her favorite wing-back chair. Her eyes fluttered open and she noticed that the square of sun from the window had moved off the book in her lap and across a considerable chunk of floor since she'd nodded off. She smiled to herself. What she wouldn't have done for an afternoon nap some days when her boys were small! And now that she could nap all she wanted, how she'd love to have those days of happy activity back again.

With a bit of a start, Mary realized she wasn't alone in the room. The sleeping form sprawled on the sofa looked so much like her Peter in his university days that she wondered if it might be just a figment of her imagination. Same tousled brown hair, same backpack leaning against the doorframe, same worn shirt she remembered buying for him to take along to his second – or maybe third? – year. _Ah, that vow of poverty,_ she thought, with another smile.

Was he really there? Old age and an empty house could do funny things to a person's mind sometimes. After all, this was how she always thought of Peter – the grown Peter, that is, once he'd passed the point of digging massive holes in the sand pile or spending every waking moment on the football pitch. Proud as she was of his vocation and much as she knew that he was a good priest – very good, in fact – she'd never gotten used to seeing him in that black suit and collar with his hair carefully tamed, as though that would help tame his youthful spirit as well.

Mary sat quietly for some time, glad to have her son here in her living room even if he was an apparition. Finally her curiosity got the better of her. She put her book on the floor beside the chair and leaned forward, her back protesting all the way, to touch the long arm that dangled over the edge of the sofa closest to her. It felt real enough.

"Peter?"

The tall form sprang to life and before she could say anything else, she was wrapped in a hug.

"Mum! You're awake!"

"I could say the same to you!" she laughed. "Oh, Peter, what a wonderful surprise!" She returned his embrace, then pushed him back gently to get a good look at him. Immediately she knew that something was not right. Those green eyes, so like her own, looked as though this was the only sleep they'd seen in weeks.

"What's the matter, love?" she asked.

---

Assumpta hated Heathrow Airport, had done since the first time she came to visit Leo after they left university. Too many hurrying people, too many blaring announcements, too many bright lights. It took her twenty minutes of walking just to find the ladies room and a public telephone from which to check in with Niamh. As she listened to the ringing on the other end of the line, she could picture exactly what the pub would look like at this time of day.

"Fitzgerald's!"

"Hi, Niamh."

"Assumpta! Are you there already? How's London? Have you seen Leo?" This last bit just a notch quieter than the rest.

"I've only seen the airport so far. It's as bad as ever. How're you holding up?"

"Ah, everything's fine here. You don't need to worry a bit." She turned from the phone and called, "Two minutes, Padraig! Can you not see I'm on the phone?" Then to Assumpta again, "I don't know how you put up with that one! I thought my da' was bad!"

Assumpta laughed. "So all's as usual, then."

"Well…" Niamh lowered her voice again. "I don't know about that. I just ran across to Kathleen's for bread and met Father Mac barreling out the door. He nearly knocked me over."

"Must've thought you were me."

"Kathleen says he's run ragged keeping up St. Joseph's with Father Clifford away. And," her voice dropped so low now that Assumpta had to cover her other ear in order to hear her over the airport noise, "she said Father Mac had a letter from Peter saying he'd left retreat and gone to Manchester to visit his mother."

"What? Why?"

"She didn't say. I think she had some idea, but she just pinched her lips together the way she does and made some remark about some people not knowing the difference between spiritual retreat and holiday."

Assumpta's head was spinning so that she had to lean against the wall for support. _This does not mean what you think,_ she told herself firmly.

"Listen, Niamh," she managed, "I've got to go. I'll call again soon."

"Don't worry about us. Just you have a good time. And tell Leo hello for me."

---

Assumpta forced the conversation from her mind as she navigated the Underground to the office building that was Leo's base when he was working in London.

The trains and streets were packed, and she was furious with herself for coming in the middle of a business day, though she knew it would make no difference to Leo. His face would light up when he saw her and he would welcome her with open arms. He would take her back and be a good…partner? Husband? She hadn't worked it out that far yet.

She kept her mind busy listing all the good things she could think of about Leo…and there were plenty. He was smart, funny, successful, good-looking, gentle. They'd had such good times together. And he loved her. Had never stopped, even when she sent him away – more than once.

The newsroom was bustling when Assumpta stepped off the lift. Deadline for the evening news was fast approaching. Almost at once she spotted Leo, bent over a computer screen with a colleague, every fiber of his being focused on perfecting the story. And then she knew. This plan that had seemed so safe, so convenient back in her kitchen in Ballykissangel was all wrong. It wasn't fair to this good man. It wasn't fair to Assumpta herself. She did not love him.

Assumpta stumbled blindly back onto the lift, suddenly terrified that Leo would spot her, but he did not. Back on the sidewalk she stood pressed against the building, gulping for air, wanting only to be back on a plane, headed for home. Then Niamh's voice echoed in her head.

_Gone to Manchester…_


	3. Connecting

Mary had hoped that the familiar cadence of early mass at St. Benedict's would calm the thoughts tumbling around in her mind, but thus far it was not working. She would have loved to have Peter come with her, but when she looked in on him a little while ago he had been so peacefully asleep she didn't have the heart to wake him. The poor boy had obviously been doing more praying than sleeping in recent days anyway.

Mary remembered so clearly sitting in this same service the morning after Peter had told her and Rob about his vocation. She'd been so proud, so thankful. Rob had been more cautious, wanting to make sure Peter had thought it all through, considered all his options. Peter had felt his father was not being supportive, and it had caused…not a rift…but certainly a distance between father and son. Looking back, Mary wondered if Rob had been right after all.

It was a hard road, the priesthood, perhaps harder than it needed to be. If Peter was solid in the decision he'd reached, and he certainly seemed to be, the church would be losing a fine young priest. Mary sighed. She was struggling a bit with this new turn of events. She believed in keeping promises, in honoring vows, in finishing what one started. One the other hand, she believed in her boys, had raised them to make good decisions, to know their own hearts and minds. And when it came right down to it, she very simply wanted Peter to be happy.

She knew there were priests who faced temptation, fell in love, even, and tried to have it both ways, and she thanked God that Peter was not one of those. The path he'd chosen would be difficult, but it was more truthful, more faithful in the end. _This woman had better be worth it!_ Mary thought grimly, then a bit more charitably, _Please, God, let her be worth it._

_---  
_

_This is insane! _Assumpta seethed to herself as the English countryside raced by her window. _I'm a grown woman, and independent businesswoman! Am I really allowing myself to race all over the country after one man after another?_

No. Just one man. Your were running away from him; now you're running towards him.

_But he's a priest!_

Maybe.

_Maybe? He is!_

You heard Niamh. Something's going on. Peter wouldn't just run off on a whim.

_I don't know – there seems to be a lot of that going on just now!_

She was legitimately concerned, though. It was part – though only part – of what made her get on the train to Manchester instead of doing the sensible thing and hopping the next flight home. Or the next flight to some South Sea island and never looking back – she'd thought of that possibility too! If nothing else, she was Peter's friend in a way that his parishioners could not be, and it seemed he might need a friend just now. She could at least go and see. She would do her best to be straight with him; then, if it was not to be, at least she could get on with her life.

Slightly calmer now, Assumpta turned her mind to more practical considerations. Manchester was not Ballykissangel; you couldn't just walk down the main street and expect to run into the very person you were looking for. She wracked her brain for the little that Peter had told her about his family and his life in Manchester.

She didn't know his parents' names, only that his mother lived alone since his father's death. She might have been able to come up with his brothers' names, but could not imagine herself showing up on their doorstep inquiring after their brother the priest. She knew that the church Peter had served in Manchester was not the one just down the street from the house he grew up in, where his mother still lived. For some reason, Assumpta felt she ought to know the name of that church. Saint…somebody's.

"Oh, that narrows it down!" Assumpta said aloud, drawing an inquisitive look from the elderly man across the aisle.

What else? There was a niece and nephew whom Peter adored. The little girl was Sophie and her older brother was…Ben! That was the connection! Short for Benedict. St. Benedicts's!

---

Peter awoke in his boyhood bedroom with a vague feeling of dread he couldn't place until he remembered that he owed Father Mac a phone call. He dressed in an old football jersey and shorts that he found in a drawer, anticipating the need to run off some frustration after this conversation. Then he paced the hall until the time when the parish priest would have finished early mass and returned home for his morning coffee.

Peter dialed the number for the rectory in Cilldargen. Father Mac answered on the second ring. Peter took a deep breath and plunged in.

"Father Mac. It's Peter Clifford."

The older man's voice took on a tinge of sarcasm. "Oh, the prodigal priest. Or perhaps not, I understand."

"I was sorry not to catch you in person yesterday morning. I didn't like to bring this up in a letter."

To Peter's surprise, Father Mac signed and said, "I was sorry too, but to be fair, you've been quite forthcoming about your…concerns. I knew this was a possibility when you went away on retreat."

"Really? I thought I was meant to come back with my vocation renewed."

A chuckle. "Father, you should know better than to go into prayer expecting a particular answer. I hoped you would be coming back to the pulpit – I know that may surprise you – but I knew the opposite might happen instead. I gather from your letter that this was a decision reached through a great deal of prayer."

"Yes, Father."

"In that case, I believe I have a call to make to the Bishop. You'll be returning to Ballykissangel to speak to your parishioners, I assume."

"Of course." Even faced with this daunting prospect, Peter felt lighter than he had in months.

"Let's make it sooner rather than later. And I'll want to meet with you beforehand." Peter could hear the pages of Father Mac's calendar rustling in the background. "Let's see…today's Wednesday…why don't we meet in my office on Saturday afternoon. Then you can return to your house to pack the rest of your things and get ready for your announcement at mass on Sunday."

It was done.

As Peter hung up the phone, the door flew open and his brother James' wife Ellie burst in carrying three-year old Sophie. The sight of Peter brought her up short.

"Peter! What are you doing home? I didn't know you were coming!"

"Yeah, I didn't know it myself. It's sort of a long story, though, and you look like you might be in a rush." Then ruffling the little girl's blonde curls, "Hiya, Soph!"

"Remember Uncle Peter, Sophie?" Ellie prompted.

Sophie peeked at Peter out of the corner of her eye, but nodded and gave him a shy smile. Her mother glanced around the kitchen.

"I actually am in a rush. I've got to get Ben to the clinic and I was hoping Mary could keep Sophie just for a little while. Is she here?"

"Not back from church yet. Is Ben sick?"

"Oh, some nasty rash. It just popped out overnight and the itching is driving him mad. Probably some plant he crawled through – he's an explorer this week. Last week it was cowboys."

Peter grinned. "Well, Sophie can stay with me till Gran gets back. What do you say, Sophie? Want to play with Uncle Peter?" The child looked at him doubtfully and clutched her mother's neck. Peter thought fast. "How about we go to the park?" he suggested.

Sophie's face brightened. "Will you push me on the swing?"

"Absolutely," Peter promised.

"Okay!" She wriggled out of Ellie's arms and grabbed Peter's hand. "Come on!"

"Hold on a sec," he laughed. "Let's leave a note for Gran so she knows where we are."

"Thanks a million, Peter," said Ellie gratefully. "We shouldn't be long. Be good girl, Sophie!" As she flew back out to the car, Peter heard her call, "Benny, you'll never guess who you get to see at Gran's after the doctor's!"

_Here we go, _thought Peter. By evening his story would be all over Manchester…and Ballykea. He turned his attention to his niece.

"Now, where do you suppose Gran keeps her note paper?"

---

Somewhere about halfway between London and Manchester it became obvious that Assumpta's train was largely occupied by Man U fans. They'd apparently consumed a great deal of beer before boarding, and the fact that the big match hadn't started yet did not discourage them from chanting and cheering at the top of their lungs.

By the time the train pulled into Manchester, Assumpta was in a foul mood and her head throbbed. Exhausted from a full day of traveling, she needed a bath, a glass of wine and a place to lay her head. The small hotel across from the station could offer all three, so Assumpta checked in, even though the room rates were nearly double those in her own pub.

She fell asleep immediately, but woke only a few hours later with knots in her stomach. It was torture not knowing whether she would find Peter, not knowing if he would be glad to see her, if she'd made the right decision to come. Having given up on sleep, she perused the city directory, locating St. Benedict's on the street map and determining which bus route would take her there. Only sheer force of will kept her at the hotel until 9:00.

The bus took her out of the center of the city past office buildings, shops, apartment buildings, into quieter residential neighborhoods. After about fifteen minutes, Assumpta spotted a stone steeple rising above its neighbors in the next block. She pulled the cord to signal the bus driver to stop. Once on the sidewalk, she stood still and looked around her. The houses that lined the street were small and neatly kept, many with flowers blooming in their window boxes. It was quiet, probably because most of the residents would be off at work at this hour, and only an occasional car passed on the street. Assumpta felt jumpy, as though Peter might pop out from behind any bush. _Well, that is what you came for, _ she scolded herself.

She started down the street toward St. Benedict's. Perhaps she'd catch Peter on his way home from mass. _And say what? Niamh said that Kathleen said that Father Mac said that you'd left your retreat and I happened to be in the country looking up my old boyfriend, so I thought I'd pop by and see if you're all right. Oh, and wouldn't you like to just give up this whole priest thing and come home with me?"_

The stillness of the street was broken by a happy squeal and a child's, "Catch me!" coming from a little park at the next corner. As Assumpta watched, a little girl whizzed down the slide and into the arms of a man in shorts and a jersey, her father, probably. He lifted her above his head and zoomed her around like an airplane while the little girl shrieked and giggled with delight. After a minute of this the man yelled, "Crash landing!" and the pair collapsed on the grass.

With a jolt of recognition, Assumpta knew. Not the child's father after all. That was Peter. He looked so young, so…oh God…not at all like a priest! Assumpta did not remember having walked to the gate, but her hand was on the latch, lifting it. Peter turned at the sound, saw her standing halfway through the gate with questions in her eyes. In a second he was there, had pulled her through the gate and latched it closed and wrapped her in his arms. His long fingers twined in her hair, nestling her head against his chest.

She drew a long breath and the scent of him went straight to her head. It was grass and sunshine and something else so comfortingly masculine, so Peter. She'd waited so long! Her breath caught in her throat. Peter pulled back and placed his hands on either side of her face, searching there with eyes intense, yet gentle. She recognized that look, had seen snatches of it in the past before he'd hidden it away. He was hiding nothing now.

At last she spoke. "I didn't know if…are you all right?"

Peter gave her a lopsided grin. "I think I'll be fine, now." Assumpta leaned into him again and felt as though, possibly, she might be just fine, too.

**To be continued...after vacation**


	4. Telling Truths

Peter had no inclination to move from this position or to let go of this woman who, inexplicably, was here, so close that the breeze was blowing little strands of her hair up into his face. But he felt Sophie tugging at the bottom of his shorts, so he loosened his arms, took a step back and smiled reassuringly down at his niece. She was peering out from behind him at Assumpta with her head tipped to one side, not sure what to make of this new person.

Assumpta recovered herself slightly and knelt down. "You must be Sophie," she said with a smile.

Sophie looked astonished. "How do you know my name?"

Assumpta laughed. "Oh, your Uncle Peter may have mentioned you a couple of times," she answered, glancing up at Peter.

He reached for her hand and pulled her to her feet. "Come and meet my mum," he said. "Come on, Sophie. Let's go and see Gran." They walked on down the street toward the church companionably with Sophie skipping between them. Neither was sure what was happening, but it was enough just to be together, for now.

When they reached Mary's house, Sophie raced ahead through the open front door calling, "Gran? Gran!"

Mary had just had time to put away her purse and Bible and locate her glasses to read Peter's note. She called back, "In the kitchen, sweetheart. Did you and Uncle Peter have fun at the park?"

In bounded Sophie. "Oh, yes! We played airplane. And we found…" she trailed off, forgetting Assumpta's name. Instead, she pointed. "Look!"

Mary looked. Standing in her front hall was a lovely young woman with porcelain skin and thick dark red hair. Her eyes were so wide that she reminded Mary of a race horse who might bolt at any moment, if she hadn't been anchored by Peter's hand at the small of her back. Mary's surprised expression melted into a wide smile that spread to her green eyes. "Well. You'll be Assumpta, I'd imagine. Come in and sit down, child."

Sophie's astonishment returned, and she demanded, "How do you know her name?"

Peter found his voice and chuckled sheepishly. "Em…Uncle Peter may have mentioned her a couple of times."

"May have, at that," Mary agreed, showing Assumpta into a seat at the kitchen table. "Peter, you put some tea on. And how did your phone call go this morning, if I may ask?"

It took Peter a moment to remember what she was talking about; his call to Father Mac seemed like ages ago. "Oh! Better than expected, actually. But, Mum," here he glanced at Assumpta, "I haven't had a chance…"

"Oh!" Mary clamped her hand over her mouth. "Well, then, I believe Sophie and I will just go on out to the garden for awhile and leave you two to your tea. And Peter, you may want something a bit stronger." She nodded at the cupboard where she kept the brandy.

"Why, Mum!" Peter feigned innocence. "I've no idea what you even keep in there!"

"Course not," Mary twinkled back at him. "Come on Sophie. Gran will read to you about Winnie-the-Pooh." She'd need that afternoon nap today for sure, she reflected, as she followed her granddaughter out into the garden. Had she really been wishing for more activity around the house just day before yesterday?

---

Assumpta fidgeted in her chair as she watched Peter move comfortably around his mother's kitchen. She liked being behind the bar where there was always something to do, was not good at sitting still. Here, she felt exposed, ill at ease. When Peter set a mug of tea in front of her, she wrapped her hands around it, glad to have something to do with them. She waited for Peter to sit down, but he stayed on his feet, putting dishes in the sink, wiping at a spot on the counter. Finally, her temper sparked. "Peter! Would you ever sit down?!"

He raised a teasing eyebrow at her. "Ah, now there she is! I was beginning to think you'd left the real Assumpta back across the sea." She glared at him. Peter held up his hands. "I know. You're right. I was trying to think how to begin."

"I've heard at the beginning works well."

"Nope. Take too long. How about this…" He sat in the chair across from Assumpta, took a deep breath and leveled his gaze at her. "I've asked Father Mac to start the process of having me released from my vows. I'm giving up the priesthood."

Assumpta went white and the mug tipped precariously in her hand. Peter rescued it and set it on the table.

"Assumpta? Say something!"

She struggled to focus her mind, cast about for something safe to say. "I…you…are you leaving Ballykea?" she finally managed past the buzzing in her ears.

"I hope not." Peter gripped the edge of the table to stop himself from getting up from the table and going round to take her in his arms and hold her until she stopped looking as though she might fall to pieces. They needed to have this conversation first.

"But, Peter…you love being a priest. Don't you? You make a difference. You _help_ people!"

This was safer territory. Peter had been over it in his own mind a thousand times. "I did love it. I love God, certainly, love the Church, even. It's part of who I am – the ritual, the rhythm of it. I haven't lost my faith. And being a priest is an unbelievable privilege. You walk with people through all the milestones in their lives – hear their confessions, perform their weddings, christen their babies. But at the end of the day…" he paused, then continued with difficulty, "it's still _their_ life."

Assumpta said nothing, but reached across the table to touch his forearm lightly, briefly.

Peter went on, "When I was in Manchester, it was enough. But when I came to Ireland, saw how a small community like Ballykissangel works, how people fight with each other in the morning and drink a pint together in the evening, how they come together to help each other through tough times and to celebrate the good things in life…" He broke off, shaking his head. "I don't have to be a priest to make a difference in people's lives. Brendan does it. Doc Ryan does it. You do it yourself all the time."

Assumpta laughed. "What, by supplying the pints?"

"By supplying a listening ear and a gathering place," Peter smiled. "But the pints don't hurt either. Wish I had one right now, in fact!" He heaved a huge sigh. "I just can't do it anymore, Assumpta. I can't go on performing the wedding or the christening, going to the party and then going home, alone, with nothing to look forward to but mass the next morning. It's…incomplete. Does that make any sense?"

Assumpta nodded, able to meet his eyes only fleetingly before looking away again. _Does it ever. Especially the part about going home alone._

Peter's heart was pounding, but he knew he couldn't leave it there. There was nothing to do but forge ahead. "Everything changed when I came to Ireland. It changed because I met the most extraordinary woman who accepted me not because I was a priest, but in spite of it. Who challenges me every day to do what's right even if it isn't what's expected. Who sees past all the trappings, past the collar, to the person I really am and, apparently, likes me anyway." He gave a small, desperate laugh. "At least, I hope you do, Assumpta, because I'm in love with you. Completely. Hopelessly. Despite all my best efforts. I don't expect anything from you now, maybe not ever, I just…I just need you to know that."

It took a lot to render Assumpta Fitzgerald speechless, but Peter's little soliloquy had done it. She raised her eyes to his and the intensity there hit her full force, literally took her breath away. Peter reached across the table with one hand, his thumb tracing a line along her cheekbone, down to her chin. Assumpta felt every cell in her body come alive at his touch.

The front door banged open, shattering the charged air between them. In charged a small boy almost completely covered in pink calamine lotion.

"Uncle Peter!"

Peter shook his head and smiled ruefully at Assumpta before turning to greet his nephew. "Benny! What in the world happened to you?"

"Dr. Addy says I've got an allergy," Ben said proudly. "I got some medicine _and_ a lollipop!" He held up his arm, displaying both.

"Oooh, strawberry. Lucky you!" Peter pulled Ben into a hug, then noticed the boy's mother standing in the doorway, taking in the scene in the kitchen.

"H'lo, Ellie. I'd like you to meet Assumpta Fitzgerald. Assumpta, this is my sister-in-law."

_Oh, fabulous way to meet the family,_ Assumpta thought. She felt the color rising in her cheeks, but forced herself to smile. "Hello," she said, shocked by the calmness of her own voice.

"Hello!" replied Ellie, whose own smile, though curious, was friendly enough. Then to Peter, "Well! This does seem to be a long story! Do we get to hear it anytime soon?"

Peter chuckled. "How about dinner tonight? Call Jamie at work and have him call Dan, will you? Tell them I'm cooking."

Ellie looked doubtful. "I can think of some other things more likely to get them here." Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Assumpta suppressing a laugh. "But, that's what I'll say if you want. Now, what've you done with my daughter?"

"In the garden with Mum."

"Come on, Ben. Let's take Sophie home for lunch. You can see Uncle Peter again later." She ushered the reluctant child outside, calling back, "Lovely to meet you, Assumpta!"

They went through the door into the garden, where Sophie and her grandmother were snuggled together on the swing.

"Busy day at your house, then, Mary?" Ellie asked mischievously.

"You might say that," her mother-in-law agreed.

---

Back in the kitchen, Peter found himself wondering exactly how many pints of stout he was going to owe Brendan Kearney upon returning to Ballykissangel. Had Brendan spoken to Assumpta as he'd spoken to Peter and prompted this unexpected visit? He was casting about for a way to broach the subject, but Assumpta spoke first.

"Is it always such a madhouse around here?"

Peter thought at first that she was joking, but her own role in the madness seemed honestly not to have occurred to her.

"No," he said wryly, "I'd say today has been unusual in almost every possible way."

"Yeah, yeah." Downcast eyes and a quick smile.

"So, now that I've bared my soul and risked making a complete arse of myself, are you going to fill me in on how you happen to be sitting in my mother's kitchen? I mean, you are really there, right? I'm not going completely mad?"

"You may very well be going mad, but I'm here anyway," Assumpta said pertly. "I spoke to Niamh on the phone and she'd heard you had left retreat and come here. I wanted to make sure you were all right."

Peter frowned, confused. "You spoke to Niamh on the phone? Is she away?"

Damn. She was already mucking this up. Well, she'd vowed to be straight with Peter; here was her first chance.

"No. I was. I was in London."

There was a moment's silence, during which Peter felt as though an enormous weight had been dropped on his chest.

"London?" he echoed dumbly. Had he really been stupid enough to misread this entire situation?

Assumpta nodded. "I…went to see Leo."

Peter fought to keep his voice neutral. "Do I want to know why?" He felt certain that he didn't.

Assumpta's chin came up defiantly. Hurt and anger, forgotten until now, sparked in her eyes.

"For God's sake, Peter. What did you want me to do? I spent two years of my life hanging around Ballykissangel, staying near you, waiting to see if anything was ever going to come of this…whatever it is between us. I'd already sent Leo away once." She swiped angrily at her eyes, trying to stop the hot tears forming there. "And then you went away and I knew…I just couldn't…I mean, did you expect I'd just be there, still waiting, when you came back?"

She'd risen from her chair and retreated to stand with her back against the cooker, the same way she'd stood when Peter had told her about going on retreat. Her hands were clenched into tight fists at her sides. Peter stood, took a step towards her, then stopped and grasped the back of a chair for support.

_I'm too late? We might really have had a chance, but I've waited too long and now she's chosen Leo?_ He felt like he'd been punched.

Her tears were flowing unchecked now. Assumpta in a rage, Peter knew, but Assumpta in tears was uncharted territory. He could think of nothing to do but what he'd been wanting to do all along. He crossed to her, gathered her against his chest, held her close.

He said softly, choking back his own tears, "I didn't expect anything, Assumpta. I only hoped."

Her shoulders shook within the circle of his arms as she let go of all the hurt, frustration, loneliness she'd kept secret inside for so long. In time, she calmed and straightened, wiping her face with her hands.

"This is ridiculous. I don't ever cry."

Peter gave her a sad smile. "I know. I won't tell." He moved to lean against the counter beside her and paused for a long, self-preserving moment before he asked reluctantly, "So, what happened in London?"

Assumpta took a deep breath. "Well…I was on my way to see Leo, to ask him to take me back. Then I called Niamh to check in and she said you'd come here. And I was still going to see him, and I got all the way to his office, and I just couldn't." She looked up, eyes pleading. "I don't love him. I love you. So I came here instead."

Peter stared at her. "Wait a minute. Are you…? You just put me through what has to be the worst five minutes of my life to tell me that you're not involved with Leo and that you want to be with me?" he demanded incredulously.

"Yeah, and you're lucky it was only five minutes!" Assumpta shot back, but she bumped Peter's arm with her shoulder playfully.

A vast sea of relief flooded over Peter, and he chuckled, shaking his head. As if he'd been doing it all his life, he put his arm around her shoulders, pulling her against his side, brushed his lips against the pulse at her temple. "You are so difficult!" he told her.


	5. Keeping Company

After Mary had admired Ben's rash and his lollipop and been informed of the plans for dinner, Ellie herded the children around the side of the house to the car. Mary waited for what she hoped was about fifteen minutes longer, then cautiously poked her head back inside. The conversation in the kitchen had turned lighter; she could tell by the way the quick, lilting voice was followed by Peter's deep laugh. It was a comfortable, intimate sound that brought a nostalgic smile to Mary's face.

Arriving at the kitchen door, she saw Peter and Assumpta sitting on opposite sides of the table, heads bent towards each other but not touching at all. Their cups of tea had barely been touched.

"Is it safe?" Mary asked, by way of announcing herself.

"Mostly," said Peter. "Thanks, Mum."

"I'm sorry to barge in on you like this," Assumpta apologized nervously, beginning to stand up.

Mary waved her back down into her chair. "Don't be silly," she said, "I'm thrilled to have you." She took a seat between the two of them and looked appraisingly at Assumpta. "I do believe I'd have known you anywhere, just from this one's description. Although," now addressing Peter, "she's a bit quieter than I expected."

Assumpta raised her eyebrows. "What have you been saying about me, exactly?" she demanded.

Peter pretended not to hear. "Just give her time," he told his mother. "She's on best behavior."

"Unlike some!" Assumpta retorted.

"That's more like it," grinned Peter.

Mary laughed. "I don't know about the two of you, but I need some lunch. Shall I make us some sandwiches?"

Assumpta sprang to her feet. "I'll make sandwiches…if you're sure it's no bother for me to stay."

"No bother at all," Mary reassured her. "It's lovely for me to have company. It's usually very quiet here, believe it or not. And company that waits on me hand and foot," this as Peter rose to help Assumpta find the lunch things, "why, that's even better!"

After they had eaten, Mary stifled a yawn. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to excuse myself and have a little rest," she said. "Especially since I hear there's to be a dinner party here later."

Peter cringed. "Sorry. Forgot to mention. I thought I'd get all my explaining over with at once. You won't have to lift a finger, I promise."

"Will you join us?" Mary asked Assumpta.

"Oh, I don't think so." The spooked race horse look was back in Assumpta's eyes. Truthfully, she had no idea what she would do next. "I need to go and claim my things from the hotel. And I should probably see if I can fly out later tonight – be back to take over from Niamh for tomorrow's breakfast."

Mary could see panic rising in Peter's face, noticed him starting to reach out as if to stop Assumpta from leaving. But she was closer and quicker. She covered the girl's hand with her own. "Oh, you mustn't leave yet, Assumpta, please. I've scarcely had a chance to chat with you. Stay and have coffee tomorrow morning, at least."

"Well…" Assumpta looked to Peter for guidance.

"Stay," he said quietly, "Please."

The sweet smile he gave her kindled a delicious warmth in the center of Assumpta's body that radiated outward to every other part. She dropped her eyes, hardly trusting herself to speak. "Well," she said again, "I'll have to see if the room's available for another night."

"You'll do no such thing!" exclaimed Mary. "There's a perfectly good guest room down the hall. Peter's feeling domestic today, apparently, so he can make it up for you."

"Oh, no, I couldn't," protested Assumpta, but Mary was adamant.

"Nonsense," she said briskly, "You've come all this way; the least we can do is give you a place to sleep."

So it was decided. Assumpta would go and collect her things, and Peter would call for her at the hotel café after the dinner with his family. With the details satisfactorily settled, Mary retired to her wing chair, leaving Peter and Assumpta to do the washing up. When they could find nothing more to wash or wipe or sweep, Assumpta turned reluctantly for the door.

"I'll leave you to your afternoon's work, then."

Peter feigned fatigue. "I know…wash up, cook dinner, make beds…"

She smiled at him and started down the walk. "Now you know what it's like to run a pub," she teased over her shoulder. With effort, she waited until she was halfway down the block to look back. He was still standing there, as she'd known he would be, leaning against the door frame and watching her. His gaze could warm her skin even at a distance.

"Go on with you," she called back, and his laugh followed her as she walked on toward the bus stop.

---

At about 7:00, Assumpta settled herself in a booth at the rear of the café with a cappuccino and the novel she had purchased during her afternoon of amusing herself in Manchester. She knew it would be some time before she could expect Peter, but she wanted to savor the experience of waiting. Not that waiting for Peter was new to her; it seemed she'd spent every evening for over two years now wondering whether he'd come into the pub, pulling pints with one eye on the door, feeling her heart jump to her throat when he did come in, berating herself for behaving like a teenager. But tonight there was nothing to stop her from watching for him openly…and they would be leaving together.

It was nearly 8:30 by the time Assumpta heard the bell on the door jangle for the hundredth time and looked up from her book to see that it was really Peter this time. He came through the door with that little duck of his head, wearing jeans and a striped shirt Assumpta had never seen before. The collar was open, the sleeves rolled up just below his elbows. His hair curled slightly over his forehead. He looked incredibly beautiful to Assumpta, at once familiar and new.

Joy, anticipation and terror battled for control of her emotions, but she sat still and watched him scan the room until a tingle along her spine told her he'd spotted her. She stood and went to meet him, powerless to stop the ridiculous grin she could feel spreading across her face.

Peter's features were lit by a matching expression. He offered her his arm. "Ready?"

"Ready or not!" she answered, slipping her arm through his.

"How'd it go with your brothers?" Assumpta asked, once they were seated side by side on the bus.

Peter considered the question for a moment before answering. "Pretty well, all told. Jamie and Ellie were great." He smiled at her. "You apparently made quite an impression on Ellie."

"Me?" Assumpta was surprised. "I hardly spoke to her."

"Seems to have worked," Peter said. "Maybe you should try that more often." Assumpta aimed a punch in his direction, and he dodged out of the way, laughing. "And Sophie wanted to know…let's see…where you were, when you were coming back and why you talk so funny."

"I do not talk funny!" Assumpta protested, but was pleased that the little girl had remembered her. "What about your other brother?"

Peter shrugged. "He'll come around, I think. Dan's the youngest, and he tries to compensate by over-thinking everything. He's the serious one – and just a touch self-righteous, maybe."

"Wait – you're the priest and _he's_ the serious, self-righteous one?"

Peter made a face at her. "All right, enjoy it while you can. Before long you won't be able to make those jokes anymore."

Assumpta made a face back. "I suppose I'll just have to find a way to live with that." After a moment's silence, she asked, "Are you worried about telling them – you know, back home?"

"Yes, a bit," Peter answered truthfully. "Not enough to want to go back to the way things were, though. Are you?"

"Em…not worried, exactly. Just…nervous. To tell you the truth, I'm the most worried about Niamh."

Peter looked surprised. "Yeah?"

Assumpta nodded. "She's been pushing this thing with Leo for years. I've often though she must have a little crush on him herself."

Peter's eyebrows shot up. "Well, who could blame her? He is quite the dashing bloke." He glanced sideways at Assumpta and asked, only half-kidding, "Sure you don't want to reconsider?"

"Positive," she replied firmly and settled her head comfortably on Peter's shoulder.

He rested his cheek on the top of her head. "Good."

They rode that way in happy silence for several minutes. Then Peter said, "Well, I have a feeling there are those who won't be so surprised."

"Yeah? Who?"

"Well, Brendan, for one. He tracked me down while I was on retreat. Gave me a little shove in the direction I was headed anyway."

"Oh, well, Brendan," Assumpta said dismissively. "He's always been too observant for his own good. When I was fourteen he caught me sneaking out at night. Made me do extra maths practice for a month in return for not telling my parents."

Peter grinned, picturing it. "Apparently he'd noticed you weren't your usual sunny self with the customers," he teased.

Assumpta's head popped up. "Oh, just because I threw him out for being a complete eedjit to Siobhan. And in her cond…" she stopped short and clapped a hand over her mouth.

"It's all right," Peter told her. "I heard the whole story. That's why Brendan came to see me in the first place – for a listening ear."

"You set him straight, I hope."

"He set himself straight…and me too, while he was at it." He picked up her hand, laced their fingers together.

Assumpta sighed happily and nestled her head back in its spot. "Ah, well then. I'll give him one on the house when I get back."

"Oh, good," said Peter. "I thought I was going to go broke buying him drinks – and me unemployed!"

---

Mary had left the porch light on for them, but she had gone to bed. The house was quiet. Peter carried Assumpta's bag to the guest room and placed it next to the bed, noticing with a burst of affection that his mother had turned on the bedside lamp and placed a pitcher of flowers from her garden next to it on the nightstand. He turned, stepped back through the doorway and stood transfixed gazing from the dim hallway back into the softly lit living room where Assumpta was waiting. For him.

She was so lovely. She stood facing away from him, studying the family photos that hung on the wall. Her head was tipped, displaying the graceful curve of neck to shoulder. Peter imagined, not for the first time, touching his lips to that soft hollow behind her ear. _Well, what's stopping you?_ asked a voice in his head, and for the first time he had no answer. He came up behind her and placed his hands on her shoulders, felt her relax into his touch.

"Tired?"

"Mmmhmm. Don't want to go to sleep, though." She glanced up over her shoulder, then back.

"No?"

"Too risky. I mean, what if this is all a dream?"

Peter slipped his arms around her waist and bent his head until his lips brushed her ear. "If only there were something we could do to make seem more real."

A little gasp of breath and a shiver betrayed Assumpta's reaction before she hissed, "Peter Clifford! Your mother's just beyond that door!"

She could feel his teasing smile against her hair. "I know. And I'm still a priest. It's a real shame, isn't it?"

Assumpta groaned softly. "No fair!"

Peter continued, "I've done a fair bit of thinking back over my vows, though, and I don't remember anything in there about this." His arms tightened, pulling her snug up against him. "Or this." His lips finally found the spot he'd been eyeing. Assumpta's breath came faster, and she arched her neck up toward his mouth as it moved over her skin.

Gently, he turned her to face him and his voice lost its teasing note. "This next bit I'm quite sure was covered, but I swear, Assumpta, I can't wait any longer." One hand held firm at her waist, while the other lifted to cup her chin, tilt her face upward. She met his eyes honestly, her gaze clear and steady, before allowing her eyes to drift closed. Peter bent his head slowly, brought his lips to meet her parted ones, brushed across them soft as a whisper, lingered there for a long, sweet moment.

He opened his eyes to find Assumpta grinning at him. "Not bad, for a priest," she whispered. Then her fingers were in his hair, one hand settling at the back of his neck, pulling him back for more. They were lost in each other, in sensation, in a kiss as hungry as the first had been gentle. The rest of the world could have melted away and they would not have noticed.

Slowly they surfaced and drew apart, breathless. As their eyes met again, they shared a delighted laugh, celebrating this moment they had created together that was even better than the countless times each of them had dreamed it in solitude. Peter cradled Assumpta's head against his chest. "Well!" he said wryly, when he could speak again, "I'm sure I'll go right to sleep after that!"


	6. Touching Down

In the end it turned out to be Assumpta who did not sleep well. She woke suddenly in the thick, dark quiet of very early morning feeling utterly safe, but with no idea where she was. There was something familiar about the smell of the air, so she breathed deeply, eyes still closed, trying to make sense of it.

_Peter? Am I dreaming again? Damn it._

But no, this was different. Her fingers came to her lips, where she could still feel the pressure of his kiss, and her eyes flew open. She lay perfectly still as memories of the day before returned. Her body came awake with joy, love, desire. She was in Manchester, with Peter sleeping just two rooms away. He loved her. She had been right to come.

Slowly, Assumpta rolled over and looked at the glowing face of the clock on the nightstand. Twenty past two. _Go back to sleep,_ Assumpta told herself. _This will still be true in the morning_.

But sleep had gone. The day's events played through her mind, seeming more and more like a fantasy or a story about someone else. Things like this didn't happen in real life, not to Assumpta, anyway. The demons of the wee hours began to tug at the corners of her thoughts.

Peter had said he wanted to stay in Ballykissangel, but what if that changed when he became a free man and the whole world opened up before him? Would it really be enough? Could she be at home anywhere else if he wanted to leave? Worse, what if he left alone? He had known women before he became a priest, certainly women more sophisticated and interesting than a barkeeper from some Irish backwater. Women who would share his faith. What if _she_ wasn't enough?

What if it turned out that what she had told herself all these years was actually true: that she wasn't good at relationships, was better off on her own? Maybe Niamh had been right when she chided Assumpta some months ago for only wanting what she could not have. As far as Assumpta knew, Niamh was oblivious to her feelings for Peter, but her words had been spot on at the time, which was why they had cut so deep. What if it was still true – either for herself or for Peter – and once they were free to become involved, the thrill was no longer there?

She did her best to beat these thoughts back and return to sleep but eventually could lie still no longer. As quietly as she could, she rose, opened the door to her room and moved through the unfamiliar darkness to the kitchen, where a small light burned over the sink. Assumpta sat at the table, wrapped her arms around her legs and rested her chin on her knees. She shivered. The camisole and cotton pyjama pants she had worn to bed offered little protection against the chill of the night.

A gray sweater hung on the back of the chair across the table. Peter's, of course. She reached for it, buried her face in it, then pulled it over her head. Immediately she felt a bit better. If only she could wake Peter and let him tell her she was being silly, let him kiss her fears away. Lovely thought. But they were in his mother's house, and he was, after all, still a priest. She sighed.

"Couldn't sleep?"

Assumpta started at the sound of Mary's voice. "I'm sorry – did I wake you?"

The older woman chuckled. "No, no, just one of the hazards of getting old. One of many. A person can sleep away the afternoon without half trying, but once the rest of the world is asleep it's all over." She walked to the cupboard. "A glass of red wine sometimes helps. Will you join me?"

"That sounds wonderful," Assumpta said gratefully.

Mary pulled a wine bottle and two glasses from the cupboard then rummaged in a drawer for the corkscrew. "I imagine you know your way around one of these," she said, holding it out to Assumpta.

Assumpta glanced quickly at her, looking for any trace of insult, but there was none, only the familiar Clifford twinkle. "Well, it's been a couple of days. I might be out of practice," she smiled back. She opened the bottle, poured two glasses and handed one to Mary who gazed at it thoughtfully for a moment before raising it toward Assumpta.

"To…change."

"Ah, change," Assumpta sighed. She took a sip of her wine, set her glass down. The kitchen fell silent.

Mary waited for several moments then asked gently, "What is it that's got you awake at three a.m.?"

Assumpta stared into her wine glass, her eyes suddenly full of tears. "I'm terrified," she heard her own voice say. This was surreal. Was she really here in the middle of the night drinking wine and spilling her fears out to this woman she'd just met, who also happened to be Peter's mother, for God's sake? Where was the real Assumpta, the one whose first rule was always to show no weakness?

"Well, of course you are." Mary sipped her wine thoughtfully. "You know, seeing you sitting there wrapped up like that makes me think of a time…I can't believe it's so long ago now. My Rob had to go out of town for work for a few days and Peter was cutting his first tooth." She saw Assumpta's face crinkle in a smile, saw her wipe her cheek with the sleeve of Peter's sweater, which hung down over her hand.

"He'd been fussing day and night and Jamie was only two, didn't understand why Mummy had to spend so much time on this other little person who couldn't even play cars with him yet. Finally, I remember, it was the middle of the night and Peter woke up and wouldn't go back down and I just couldn't do it anymore. I put him in his cot and closed the door so he wouldn't wake Jamie and I found an old shirt of Rob's and put it on and just sat down and cried."

"And what happened?" Assumpta asked.

"Well, eventually Peter and I both went to sleep – I've no idea which of us first – and in the morning I was still sitting here wearing Rob's shirt, horribly stiff from having slept in a straight chair, and I had two little boys who needed breakfast."

"Was the next day better?" Assumpta was searching for the moral of the story.

"No," said Mary. "Just as bad. But the day after that Rob came home, and then the tooth came in, and pretty soon Jamie decided he liked his brother after all. And then Dan came along, and they all discovered football, and pretty soon all they needed me for was to keep the cupboard full and wash their horrible muddy clothes."

The women laughed together. "I suppose I may have missed a few years in there somewhere," Mary admitted, "but that's how it seems, looking back. The point is, Assumpta, I had almost forty years with Rob and it never stopped being scary. Wonderful, too, but always scary. That's life." Her eyes went far away, then came back and searched Assumpta's face.

Assumpta dropped her gaze. "I just…I think I might not be good enough," she said softly.

"Well, you should have been here day before yesterday when the story was coming out, then. A person would have thought you were one of the wonders of the modern world!"

Assumpta flushed, but remained unconvinced. "But there's got to be a reason I'm still single when all my friends are married and raising families. Maybe I'm just not that type."

"Oh, you kids and your _types!_" Mary shook her head. "Anyway, Peter's still single."

"Yeah, but he's got a good excuse!"

Mary chuckled. She studied Assumpta for a long moment. "I think," she said at last, "that you're going to be fine."

Assumpta felt a glow of gratitude and affection. "I don't know why you're being so nice to me," she said. "I think I'd have tried to run me out of town!"

Mary smiled. "Well, Peter seems to think rather highly of you," she said. "And in my experience, he's an excellent judge of character." She got to her feet, wincing a bit as her legs steadied under her, and went to put her glass in the sink. "I think I might sleep now," she said, heading out of the room.

Assumpta raised her head as Mary passed her chair. "Thank you," she said.

Mary paused, laid her wrinkled hand on Assumpta's smooth cheek. "You get some sleep, too," she said. "We'll be back from mass at 9:00 and we'll want coffee." She walked back to her bed strangely happy.

_Just when you think you're done being a parent…" _she thought as she nodded off.

---

The eight-o'clock bells from St. Benedict's woke Assumpta from a restful sleep. She lay listening, enjoying the spots of sunlight dancing on the walls and the sense of well-being that flowed through her veins. _How long 'til this stops being a surprise every time I wake up? _she wondered.

She showered and dressed then walked to a shop near the bus stop for pastries and fruit. By the time she heard Peter and his mother coming up the walk, she had set a pretty breakfast table and the kitchen smelled of fresh-brewed coffee.

"Oh, how lovely!" Mary exclaimed. "The two of you are spoiling me. I'll just put my things away, won't be a moment."

As she left the room, Assumpta turned her eyes to Peter, who was leaning in the doorway looking very pleased with himself. He crossed the room in two paces, took her by the arms and kissed her quickly, thirstily. "I still can't believe you're really here!" he whispered into her hair.

Assumpta felt as though she might burst with happiness. "You'd better behave yourself," she scolded. "Doing things like that isn't going to make the waiting go any quicker!"

His eyes went a shade darker and he locked her gaze. "I'm going to do that every chance I get," he told her firmly. And he did it again.

When Mary returned they were both grinning like fools, but if she noticed she pretended not to. She lowered herself into her usual chair and accepted the cup Assumpta handed her. "So. Tell me about life in Ballykissangel," she said. "Peter makes it sound like heaven on earth."

"It is beautiful," Assumpta agreed proudly. "But then I'm probably biased. I've never lived anywhere else, other than being away at university."

"You went right back afterwards?"

Assumpta nodded. "My dad died while I was in school, and my mother needed help in the pub. Then not long afterwards I lost her as well and suddenly I was a small business owner."

Mary clucked sympathetically. "A big responsibility for someone so young. No brothers or sisters to share the load?"

"No." A shadow passed over Assumpta's eyes before she shook it away. "Lots of regulars who think they run the place, though!"

Peter laughed. "That's for sure. You can't beat Ballykea for local characters."

Mary addressed Assumpta, concern wrinkling her brow. "Will they accept Peter back, do you think, these neighbors of yours?"

"They'd better. Or they can get their drinks somewhere else!" Assumpta said fiercely, her eyes sparking.

"Easy there." Peter gave her a lopsided smile.

"Well that's all right then," Mary said, "As long as he's got someone looking out for him."

"He'll have lots of people doing that," said Assumpta, "and others who will go out of their way to make life difficult. Especially…" she dropped her eyes, unable yet to say _especially if he's with me_.

Mary sighed. "Yes, well, there are those people in any community. More's the pity." The three fell into a thoughtful silence which was interrupted a moment later by the telephone ringing in the next room.

"Want me to get that, Mum?" Peter asked.

"No, no." Mary rose from her chair. "It'll be Ellie looking for an update, I'll bet."

But it was not Ellie. A moment later Mary called, "Peter? Brendan Kearney for you." With a surprised glance at Assumpta, Peter sprang up and went to answer.

"Brendan? This is getting to be a habit with you!"

"Well, if you weren't so bloody hard to find! D'ya have any idea how many Cliffords there are in Manchester?"

Standing in the doorway, Assumpta stifled a laugh as the familiar voice came booming through the receiver to be heard clear as day fifteen feet away. Peter smiled. "Can't say I do, no. What can I do for you, now that you've found me?"

"Listen, Peter, I know this is a long shot, but do you by any chance know where Assumpta is? There's been a fire at the pub."

"Oh, no," Peter breathed. "Yes…yes…she's here. I'll put her on." He held the phone out to Assumpta.

The expression on Peter's face was making Assumpta very nervous. She fairly grabbed the receiver out of his hand. "Brendan? What's the matter?" she demanded.

"You might want to sit down." Oh dear. He was using his teacher voice.

"I'm a big girl, Brendan!" Assumpta snapped. "Just tell me what's happened, okay?"

"All right," he said. "There was a fire at the pub this morning. Electrical, they think."

"Oh, God." Despite her bravado, Assumpta now looked desperately around for the nearest chair and perched on the edge of it. Her first thought was of Niamh, who might have been there early getting the coffee on, might even have had Kieran with her.

Brendan answered her question before she asked it. "Good news is, no one was hurt," he reassured her. "The place is a mess, but nothing that can't be fixed. Most of the real damage is in the basement. You want to give Niamh a call, though, before she sends Ambrose out on a personal manhunt. She's beside herself."

Assumpta groaned. "Oh, Brendan. You have no idea how much I really, really _don't_ want to do that."

He chuckled. "I may have some idea. My advice is, try to put off explaining some of the finer points until you're back home. She's so upset about the first she might let you get away with it."

"You didn't tell her where I was?"

"Well, I didn't know for sure myself, did I? I just had a hunch when you and Peter both turned up missing at the same time…"

"Mmmm. Subtle, aren't we?" Assumpta asked sardonically.

There was a brief pause and Assumpta could almost hear Brendan's smile before he said earnestly, "It's my own personal hope that, when it comes to you and Peter, the days of subtlety are over and done with. I'm sorry about the pub, truly I am, but it's going to be all right. All of it."

"Thanks, Brendan." Assumpta was surprised at how much better that made her feel. "I promise I'll call Niamh right away."

"Good girl. And tell Peter I hear Manchester's lovely this time of year."

"Oh, shut up!" Assumpta retorted and hung up smiling; knowing as she did that it was an odd way to end such a conversation.

Peter thought so too, when he heard the receiver click down and came back into the room. He wondered for a moment if she was about to go into hysterics. Then the smile faded and Assumpta dropped her head into her hands. Peter touched her shoulder lightly. "Are you all right?"

She heaved a huge sigh, lifter her head and squaring her shoulders as she let it out. "I suppose so. The pub's a mess, Brendan says, but I can handle a mess. I've been so careful about my insurance ever since the fire in Kathleen's house. No one was hurt; that's the most important thing. I guess I have to get back, though."

Peter nodded, his pride at her strength conflicting with the sense of loss he felt at having this magical visit cut short. "Of course," he said.

"Oh, stop being so reasonable!" Assumpta cried. "It's not fair. We've just begun to sort things out and real life has to come in and ruin it all!"

She sounded so much like a petulant child that Peter couldn't help laughing. He put his hands on her shoulders and looked into her face. "You're right. It's not fair. But, Assumpta, this…us…that's real life, too. It started before you came to Manchester, and it's going to continue after you leave. I'll be back in Ballykea on Saturday and I fully intend to stay around making a nuisance of myself for as long as you'll let me."

She tilted her head and considered this, still pouting a little. "Promise?" she asked.

"Oh, yes," Peter answered.

"You _are_ a nuisance, you know," she told him, as she went into his arms.


	7. Taking Leave

Niamh jumped as the phone rang in the Gard's residence in Ballykissangel. She grabbed for the receiver. "Hello?"

"Niamh?"

"Assumpta! I've been worried sick! Where on earth are you?"

"Niamh, I've just talked to Brendan. He said there was a fire…"

"Oh, Assumpta, I feel awful. I went over to do breakfast early this morning – there were two American couples staying and they had to get to Dublin to catch their flight – and I could smell the smoke the minute I opened the door. It was coming up through the door to the cellar. So I pounded on doors and got the guests up and out, but I had Kieran, so I had to take him back to Ambrose and by the time we got back with some people and buckets…oh, it's such a mess, Assumpta. I'm so sorry."

"Niamh. Calm down! You did exactly the right thing. Is everyone really all right?"

"Everyone's fine -- a bit sooty is all. But none of that stock in the cellar is any good and Dad says your electrical's all got to be redone. That's what started it off. And then I had no idea how to find you. I called Leo at work, but he hadn't seen you. Why is that, by the way? He seemed very surprised to hear from me. How did Brendan find you?

"Em…I'm not sure, exactly," said Assumpta vaguely. This was mostly true, after all. She groaned inwardly, thinking of the next difficult telephone call she would have to make…to Leo. "Listen, Niamh, I don't want to get into all of this on the phone. I'm coming home as quick as I can and we'll talk then, okay?"

"I don't suppose I really have a choice, do I?" Niamh replied crossly. "I'll make up the guest room for you. You can't stay at the pub with no power."

"I hadn't thought of that," Assumpta sighed. "Thanks, Niamh."

"You're sure you're all right?"

"Yes. Fine. Better than fine, actually." That would give Niamh something to chew on. "I'll see you tonight."

Mary came to stand in the door of the guest room as Assumpta finished packing. Watching her graceful, efficient movements it was not difficult to picture her holding court in a warm room filled with dark wood and smelling of yeast, serving out drinks and opinions in equal measure.

Assumpta felt Mary's eyes on her and turned. "I'm sorry for all the uproar I've caused," she said, concern wrinkling her forehead.

Mary dismissed the apology with a wave of her hand. "Oh, a little uproar is good for me every now and then," she replied. "Keeps me young. I am sorry about your pub, though. And sorry to see you leave so soon."

Assumpta smiled gratefully. "Well, you'll just have to come and see Ballykea for yourself," she declared. "I'll save you my nicest room…whatever's left of it."

Mary was touched. "I don't travel very much anymore," she said regretfully, "but perhaps I'll have to make an exception." Then she remembered why she had come to the room in the first place. She pulled a photograph out of the pocket of her sweater and held it out to Assumpta. "I've thought of this picture so many times since Peter moved to Ireland, and finally yesterday I found it in an old album. I thought you might like to have it."

Assumpta took the photo and studied it, a smile lighting her face. In the picture a young boy with a cowlick and sunburned nose stood at the rail of a ship pointing excitedly toward what could only be the coast of Ireland. The faded script on the back read, "Peter, age 11. Summer holiday, ferry to Dublin."

Impulsively, Assumpta gave Mary a quick hug. Past the lump in her throat she whispered, "Thank you…for everything."

Mary caught her hand and squeezed it. "It's been a joy for me to meet you, Assumpta Fitzgerald."

Several minutes later she stood on her front step watching Peter and Assumpta walk off toward the bus stop.

_So, is she worth it?_ The voice in her head sounded distinctly like Rob's.

"Oh, I think so," Mary said aloud.

---

"You don't have to come all the way to the station with me, you know," Assumpta told Peter once they'd reached the bus stop.

"Are you joking?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. "This is probably the last time I'll have you to myself for a while. Once we're back home I'll have to behave like a priest again until I'm not one anymore. When people are watching, anyway."

"When are they not?"

"Exactly. So I'm going to enjoy it while I can."

The bus rumbled up and they climbed aboard. "It's all so stupid, really, isn't it?" Assumpta demanded heatedly once they'd found seats. "I mean think of all the trouble it would have saved everybody if the Church just let priests marry in the first place!"

"Shhh!" Peter admonished, relieved to determine that the elderly women now gawking at them from across the aisle were neither former parishioners of his nor friends of his mother's.

Assumpta lowered her voice slightly but was too intent on her argument to take note either of the onlookers or of the fact that she had just brought up the subject of marriage scarcely twelve hours after their first kiss. "You know I'm right!"

Peter grinned. "Well, yeah, but then I probably would have married some horribly boring English girl who wanted to stay close to home. I might never come to Ballykea at all!"

"Oh, fine!" Assumpta huffed. "So I suppose you're telling me that I have to behave as if you're a priest, too."

"Ohhh, no." Peter held up his hands. "If I've learned anything over the past couple of years it's not to try to tell you what to do! No," he put a finger to her lips as she started to protest and echoed her own words back to her. "You know I'm right!"

Assumpta wrinkled her nose at him, but settled back to listen. Peter spoke seriously now, his green eyes warm and open. "I only want to give us the best chance of making this work. I'm hoping maybe if people have a chance to see me as something other than a priest for a while it won't come as such a shock to discover that I'm head over heels in love with one of their own."

"If you think for a minute, Peter Clifford, that you can sweet talk your way out of this…" A half-smile played around Assumpta's mouth. _…you are absolutely right. Oh, God, I'm in such trouble!_ "And stop looking at me like that!"

"I will not!" Peter answered cheekily.

Assumpta relented and allowed the smile to spread over her face. "Oh, all right." She looked up at him. "It'll be kind of nice, anyway, to keep it…you know…just us for a while." Then she grimaced. "I'll have to tell Niamh, though. She'd never forgive me if I didn't."

"That's all right," Peter said with a smile. "It'll probably go the way of all the best secrets in Ballykea, anyhow, and the whole town will know the details within half an hour!"

Too soon they stood on the platform watching the arrival of the train that would take Assumpta back to London to catch her flight home. Peter caught her in a fierce hug and held her there for a long moment. She looked up to find that his eyes were closed and his expression intent.

"Are you _praying_?" she demanded.

"Yes," he replied, releasing her. "I was asking God to see you home safely and keep an eye on you until I can get there to do it myself."

Assumpta shook her head, laughing. "Oh, Peter. What in the world are you going to do with yourself, other than be a priest?"

"No idea," he answered cheerfully. "I think I'm too old to become a professional footballer, and that's the only other thing I ever really considered."

The doors of the train opened with a great hiss, and Assumpta shouldered her bag. "Well, there's lot's of cleaning to be done at the pub. You know, in all your spare time."

Peter looked doubtful. "On second thought, maybe if I really practice hard…"

Assumpta reached for his hand and squeezed it before letting go reluctantly and turning to board the train. "Right, then. I'll save you a bucket and a sponge," she called back, tossing him a teasing smile.

Peter stood watching, lost in thought, until the train was out of sight. On any other day he would have noticed that he himself had an audience. Perhaps ten yards down the platform stood a pretty young woman with dark, curly hair. She had spotted Peter and Assumpta several minutes earlier and had watched the scene unfold with a frown growing on her delicate features.

_There'll be a next time_, Jenny Clark heard herself telling Peter the last time she'd seen him. She'd never expected to witness it with her own eyes.

---

The street seemed eerily dark and quiet without the friendly pools of light and snatches of laughter that usually spilled from the pub at this hour. Assumpta pulled her van into its usual parking spot and got out, stretching the stiffness of a long day of traveling from her limbs. A faint smell of smoke lingered in the air. Assumpta shivered to think how much worse the fire could have been. She resisted the urge to stop and inspect the damage for herself, knowing that Niamh had had a long day and would be waiting up.

Force of long habit drew her eyes up toward St. Joseph's and the curate's house beyond. She expected to find the little house as empty as the rest of the street; instead, the door was standing open and lights burned from every window. _What on earth?_

Assumpta took her bag from the back of the van and walked the short distance to the Egans'. Before she could raise her hand to knock, the door flew open and Niamh was crushing her in a hug.

"Am I glad to see you," Niamh said in a loud whisper. "Ambrose fell asleep on the couch an hour ago and I've been on pins and needles waiting ever since."

"What's going on above?" Assumpta asked, with a nod in the direction of the church.

"What, at Father Clifford's house?" Niamh rolled her eyes. "My father, of course. He's rented it out to two girls on holiday from London and you never saw two bigger ninnies. Run around half dressed all the time, drive Kathleen mad trying to buy all sorts of ridiculous food, every door and window open with music blasting at all hours…Ambrose has been called out every night since they've been there. It's no wonder the poor man's knackered!"

Assumpta saw a chance for reprieve and pounced on it. "You must be exhausted yourself. Let's get some rest and we'll talk in the morning."

Niamh was having none of it. "Oh, no you don't, Miss Better-than-Fine! I napped with Kieran this afternoon just so I could stay up for all the details. There's a bottle of wine waiting for us in the kitchen, so you just put your things in the guest room and march yourself right in there, if you please!"

Resigned to her fate, Assumpta did as she was told. Niamh poured wine into Assumpta's glass, then her own. "So?" she said. "Out with it!"

"Well," Assumpta began, gripping one hand with the other in an attempt to hide her nerves, "I've finally followed your advice and found myself a man."

Niamh's eyes lit up. "Oh, Assumpta, that's great news!" Then confusion set in. "But Leo…"

"It's not Leo."

"Not Leo? You've met someone new in two days?" Then she gasped. "Oh, Assumpta. You haven't done one of those online dating things have you? There's all sorts of lunatics out there, you know."

Assumpta snorted. "Niamh! Give me a little credit. He's not a lunatic."

"Well, you'd be a matched pair, the way you're behaving! Are you going to tell me or not?"

Assumpta could feel her fingernails digging into her palms. "It's Peter," she said quietly.

Niamh's face was completely blank. "Peter?" Her brow wrinkled as she tried to match the name with some friend or acquaintance of Assumpta's. Assumpta watched with a mixture of trepidation and amusement, waiting for her friend to make the connection. She knew the pieces had fallen into place when Niamh's expression changed to one of horror. "Peter _Clifford?!_" she shrieked.

"Hush! You'll wake the whole house!"

"But he's a _priest_!" Niamh hissed.

"Really, Niamh? I hadn't noticed."

"Oh, Assumpta. You don't want to be that woman. You're better than that!"

"Niamh! What do you take me for? I'm not going to be his mistress! He's being released from his vows. That's why he went to Manchester – to tell his family in person."

"Released….? No! He can't!"

"What? He is. He's been through it all with Father Mac."

"But he's the best priest we've had in years. He's supposed to do Kieran's christening!" Niamh wailed.

Assumpta gaped at her. "Well, I'm so sorry if my life-altering experience is an inconvenience for you!"

"It's a bit more than an inconvenience! This is my son we're talking about!"

"Niamh. He's an infant. I don't think he'll know the difference."

"I'll know the difference," said Niamh, but her voice was calmer now.

"All right in there?" called a sleepy voice from above.

"Go back to sleep, love," Niamh called back. "It's just Assumpta's gone on the priest."

"Oh. Right. Night then," Ambrose responded.

Niamh's eyes twinkled. "He's a crime fighting machine, that one," she whispered to Assumpta. "Doesn't miss a thing!"

They laughed together then fell silent.

"Well," Niamh said grudgingly, "you do look happy."

"I am happy."

"And he is rather good-looking, isn't he?" Niamh asked mischievously.

Assumpta leaned across the table and whispered, "Not only that…he's a very good kisser!"

Niamh clapped her hands over her ears. "I can't be hearing this! No – forget I said that. I have to hear everything. Start from the beginning."

Assumpta laughed and held out her glass. "I'm going to need more wine."


	8. Cleaning Up

_Author's note: For those of you who have been following this story as it evolves -- and thank you, by the way, especially to those who have taken the time to write reviews -- I just wanted to let you know that a scene has been added to the previous chapter, so you may want to re-read that one before you read this one. Hope you enjoy it!_

Squinting against the brilliant morning sun, Assumpta fumbled for the key that would open her blue front door. She was feeling the effects of too much wine and too little sleep, but was nonetheless anxious to see what work lay ahead of her before she could reopen the pub. Even with insurance money she could not afford to stay closed for long.

The dank smell of sodden, charred wood assaulted her nose as she pushed the door open. A wide trail of muddy, sooty footprints led from the door to beyond the bar, where the trapdoor to the cellar stood open. Stools had been shoved aside; at least one lay broken against the bar. Water stains meandered across the wood floor and disappeared under the carpet in the reception area.

Assumpta groaned. She wished she had not come alone, wished more than anything that Peter was there. _Soon enough_. She squared her shoulders and set about throwing open windows to let the fresh air and sunshine in. She had called the insurance people from Niamh's and could not start the cleanup in earnest until they'd been to assess the damage, so she went to have a look at the rest of the building. The kitchen and storeroom beyond were mercifully untouched. The carpet squelched discouragingly underfoot as she crossed to the stairs, but, aside from needing a good airing out, the guest rooms above seemed unharmed as well.

In the two rooms that had been full at the time of the fire, it was easy to see that their occupants had made hasty work of packing up and leaving. Bedclothes were flung back, drawers and closet doors stood open, and someone had left a book lying on the nightstand. Assumpta picked it up, making a mental note to send it along with a note of apology for the inconvenience. Not enough to make the Americans recommend Fitzgerald's to their friends, probably, but worth a try.

When she opened the door to her own room the shock of its sameness brought Assumpta up short. She herself felt entirely changed by the events of the last two days – was it really only two days? Yet here were all her things, behaving as though nothing was different. The clothes she had worn the day before she left for England lay in a heap in the laundry basket. The red and yellow duvet on her bed was still wrinkled because she had been in a rush to catch the train to Dublin and had not made her bed properly. Even the bottle of nail polish she had meant to take along sat on the dresser where she'd left it. It was a bit like seeing a display of artifacts from another life.

Assumpta pulled the picture Mary had given her from her jeans pocket and tucked a corner of it behind the frame of her mirror. _Better_. But now that there was a bit of Peter in the room it was nearly impossible to keep from imagining him being there in person, sprawled in the overstuffed chair with a book. Or standing at the window, commenting on something going on in the street below. Or waking up beside her on a Sunday morning…all right, Saturday morning more likely…with no reason in the world not to stay in bed just a bit longer…

"Assumpta?"

She jumped and flushed red, feeling like a child caught with her hand in the cookie jar. It was Brian Quigley shouting from the foot of the stairs. _This is why I don't usually leave the door standing wide open,_ Assumpta thought wryly.

"Coming!" she called back. Downstairs she found Brian on hands and knees peering down into the cellar with a torch. "Lost something, Brian?" she asked tartly.

"No, no," he replied carelessly. "Just having a look at the damage. Awful thing to come home to. Still," he stood and turned the light off, "it could have been worse."

"Thank you, Brian." It was one thing for Assumpta to think this herself and another altogether to hear it from Quigley's lips. Knowing that it was unlikely he had stopped by for a purely social call, she waited for his true motive to emerge. It didn't take long.

"You'll be wanting a contractor to oversee this lot," Brian said, gesturing around the pub.

"Will I?"

He nodded. "Find decent tradesmen, make sure everything's done right. I've got to go out of town at the end of next week, but we might be able to wrap it up before then."

"Brian, the insurance people haven't even been here yet," Assumpta told him. "I'm not ready to make any decisions right now."

"Well, you let me know. I've a good electrician out of Cilldargen and I'll keep my eye on him for you."

"Then all we'll need is someone to keep an eye on you, Brian." Padraig had come in while they were talking. "Drummin' up business are we?"

Quigley shot a disdainful look in Padraig's direction. "I'd think you'd be the first to want to see this place back in business," he said. "Work's got to get done, whether it's done by me or not." He put on his hat. "So, you didn't bring him back with you then, Assumpta?" he asked, starting for the door.

She stiffened. "Who're we talking about here, Brian?"

"Your man with the camera crew."

"Leo?" she laughed, more from relief than amusement. "As far as I know Leo's staying in London for the duration."

Brian regarded her with mild curiosity. "Funny. I would have guessed he'd come running. Just as well though. Asks too many questions, that one."

Assumpta and Padraig followed Brian to the door and watched him cross to his truck and drive away. "I believe he'd charge his own mother to change a lightbulb," Padraig observed.

Assumpta nodded. "He's got a point, though. I don't have a clue about how electrical work should be done or how much it should cost. I haven't even had the heart to look in the cellar yet."

"There's not much to see," Padraig said. "I was down there myself yesterday for a look around, and it's a soggy mess, nothing more." He shifted his weight awkwardly. "Listen, Assumpta, I just wanted to say…whatever I can do to help. I don't think I have to tell you this place is a second home for me."

"Thanks, Padraig. I'll be happy to take you up on that."

He grinned. "Besides which, we have to get your dog back home before Kevin forget who he belongs to!"

Assumpta was horrified – she hadn't even thought to ask after Fionn. "Did you take him with you after the fire?"

Padraig laughed. "Oh no. Kevin had that dog at the house about a half hour after you left. Couldn't have him getting lonely, you know!"

"Thanks, Padraig. And tell Kevin thanks, too. He's a good kid."

"I know," Padraig said proudly. "Well, I'm off. I'm supposed to be patching a tire for Siobhan's truck." He nodded down the street. "And it looks like the insurance people are here."

A non-descript beige sedan pulled up to the curb and emitted an equally non-descript man armed with clipboard and camera. He picked his way through the pub as though trying to avoid getting his shoes dirty, clicking photos and talking notes. Then he asked Assumpta a series of questions about the circumstances of the fire and the previous condition and contents of the building. After each answer he would peer at her through narrowed eyes as though doubtful she was telling him the truth. Only the thought that this person held the fate of her livelihood in his pasty hands kept Assumpta from giving him a piece of her mind. At last he put away his pencil and said self-importantly, "Thank you, Miss Fitzgerald. I shall submit my report, and the office will be in touch." He turned on his heel.

Assumpta sank down on the bench outside the door, completely sapped of energy. She leaned her head back against the warm wood of the wall and let the sun shine on her face. Her mind whirled with all the work to be done.

"Finished in record time, I see." Niamh stopped Kieran's pram beside the bench and stooped to pull a picnic basket from beneath it.

"I haven't even started," Assumpta sighed, gratefully accepting a sandwich. "Although I did open all the windows. I'm hoping a strong wind will come along and blow it all away."

Niamh poured tea from a flask. "I meant to be here to help before now, but Kieran got two shots at the doctor's and he was quite put out about it."

Assumpta peeked inside the pram, where the baby was now sleeping peacefully. "Poor lad." She stroked his cheek gently with a fingertip. "All healthy otherwise, though?"

Niamh nodded. "Growing like a weed. All ready to be christened. Not

that there's anyone to christen him."

"Shhhh!" Assumpta hissed, pointing with her eyes across the street to where Kathleen had chosen this moment to sweep the steps of her shop.

Niamh smiled impishly. "Lovely day, isn't it Kathleen?" she called.

The shopkeeper leaned on her broom. "'Tis, thanks be to God," she called back. A touch of ice crept into her voice as she continued, "I see you're back, Assumpta. What a pity about your pub."

Niamh drained the last drop of her tea and stowed the lunch things back beneath the pram. She stood and brushed off her hands. "Right. Now, where shall we start?" Together they dragged the soggy carpet to the dumpster behind the building and pulled the upholstered furniture out onto the sidewalk to air.

Niamh was just taking down the last curtain when Kieran woke and began to fuss.

"Sounds like somebody's hungry," she said apologetically as she lifted him out of his pram.

"You go on," Assumpta told her. "You got me started; that was the hard part. And there's nothing to eat here, so you know you'll see me at suppertime!"

"I'll take these home and wash them," said Niamh, gathering the sooty curtains into the arm that wasn't holding Kieran. "Just come along whenever you're ready."

Assumpta vacuumed up the worst of the soot and mud from the bar floor, then started on the windows. Before one full window was clean, she had run through what glass cleaner was left in the spray bottle. She wiped her hands on a clean rag and crossed to Kathleen's. Under the shopkeeper's watchful gaze she gathered some cleaning supplies and carried them to the counter.

Kathleen looked down her nose at Assumpta's purchases. "At least the place is getting a good cleaning," she said. "Behind every cloud, you know."

"I do clean occasionally, Kathleen," Assumpta retorted. "Even when there hasn't been a fire." From the rack on the counter she selected a postcard to send along with the book that had been left behind. The photo montage on the front featured a shot of Ballykissangel's main street with Fitzgerald's in the center, one of sheep-speckled hillsides descending to the shore or the lough and another of the spire of St. Joseph's. On a whim, Assumpta picked up an extra to send to Mary.

"Find a penpal on your travels?" Kathleen asked suspiciously.

Assumpta smiled as sweetly as she could through clenched teeth. "Just prospective guests, Kathleen. You know how it is – have to keep business going."

"Hmph," Kathleen sniffed. "I don't think I'd worry about attracting guests until I had a pub to put them in."

The school children were walking home in chattering clusters as Assumpta crossed back to the pub, so it was no surprise a few minutes later to see Brendan step through the door. With a grand gesture, he proclaimed, "Ah, the world traveler graces us with her presence!"

Assumpta put down the rag she was using and pushed her hair off her forehead with the back of her hand. After making sure that Brendan was alone she said, "I don't think one trip to Manchester really qualifies as world traveling."

"Didn't you enjoy the many fine local sights, then?"

"Just the one," replied Assumpta, with a wicked grin.

Brendan laughed, shaking his head. "It's good to see you smile, my girl. Might want to hold back just a little, though. You'll have everyone wondering what a publican with a burned out pub has to be so happy about!" He lowered his voice. "When's Peter coming back?"

"Tomorrow. He's to speak at mass on Sunday."

"Saying what, exactly?"

Assumpta shrugged. "Giving his notice, I guess. But I don't think my name will come up, if that's what you're asking,"

"Right," Brendan said with a grin. "One shock at a time." He looked around the pub. "So. I'm finished shaping young minds for the week and I'm here to help clean up."

"Not in that getup, you're not!" Assumpta chuckled, motioning to Brendan's linen suit. "Go home and change and then I'll put you to work."

When Brendan returned he was wearing work clothes and had Padraig in tow. Assumpta assigned them the task of hauling crates of beer and wine bottles, their contents rendered unidentifiable due to blackened labels, up from the cellar.

"Where d'you want us to put this lot?" asked Padraig, heaving the first crate up through the hatchway, glass singing as the bottles bumped against each other.

The publican sighed. "In the dumpster, I guess."

A pained expression crossed Padraig's face. "You're not throwing it all away?"

"Well, I can't very well serve it. I can't tell what it is!"

Padraig pried the top off one of the bottles he'd just carried up the ladder and took an experimental sip. "This one's Smithwick's," he reported, taking a longer swallow. "It's perfectly good inside."

"Listen, Padraig," Assumpta's patience was wearing a bit thin. "I really don't care what you do with it as long as it's not in my cellar anymore."

Padraig's face lit up. "Can I use your van?"

---

Brendan got out of the van and followed Padraig back into Fitzgerald's. They'd just relocated several crates of the alcohol from Assumpta's basement to a corner of Padraig's garage and returned for another load. Just before he stepped through the door he glanced up to see a figure in black with a shock of silver hair walking purposefully toward the pub. _Probably the last person she wants to see_. "Good afternoon, Father," he called out, a bit more loudly than he might usually have done, hoping to give Assumpta fair warning of her next visitor.

Assumpta was in the midst of washing down the bar and had just bent over to rinse out her sponge when she heard Brendan. She straightened so quickly that she hit her head hard on the edge of the bar and gave a yelp of pain and frustration. When Father Mac walked in he found her rubbing her head with one hand and holding a dripping sponge in the other. He raised an eyebrow. "Have I come at a bad time?"

With great effort, Assumpta gathered her wits about her and forced herself to wring out the sponge and continue with her task. "Not at all, Father. Although I'm afraid I don't have the tea on just now."

"I haven't come for tea, just to see how the clean-up is coming along."

Assumpta scrubbed harder at the top of the bar. "Thanks for your concern, Father, but I think I've told you before…I don't require the assistance of the Church."

The parish priest chuckled a little bitterly, "Ah, yes. At least some things never change." Assumpta felt the color rising in her cheeks and was grateful for the dim light. Father Mac went on, "It _is_ my job, you know, to look out for the well-being of my parish, and a rather unfortunate number of my parishioners seem to count on your pub for their well-being. So, you see, we seem to share a purpose at the moment."

Assumpta laughed incredulously.

The priest, who had begun the visit in the spirit of altruism, was beginning to feel his usual annoyance at her stubbornness, her refusal to be cowed by any situation. He should let the matter go, he knew, chalk it up to having tried – again -- but his temper got in the way. He continued, "Now, ordinarily, of course, I'd send the curate…"

Brendan came to the rescue. "I'm so glad you mention that, Father. Have you heard about all the disturbances from the renters at the curate's house? It's quite unseemly, don't you think?"

Father Mac looked from Brendan to Assumpta suspiciously. It seemed almost like the schoolteacher might know what was going on. "Kathleen did mention something," he replied finally, "but the house belongs to Brian Quigley. He can do what he likes with it."

"Reflects poorly on the church, though," Padraig chimed in. A smile tugged at Brendan's mouth. _Good man yourself, Padraig. Always ready to join an argument, even when you don't know why!_

Father Mac conceded defeat. "I'll have a word with him, for all the good that will do," he said. "Well, Assumpta, you seem to have a support system in place." He fixed a piercing gaze on Brendan, who smiled pleasantly.

"We do what we can, Father."

"Yes." The priest turned for the door, shaking his head.

When he was gone, Assumpta drew a long shaky breath and let it out slowly. "Nicely done, Brendan."

Padraig pulled himself up from where he had been leaning against the bar. "We've been seeing far too much of him around here lately, if you ask me. I think everyone will be glad when Father Clifford comes back."

Assumpta suddenly became very concerned with a particular spot on the bar and Brendan laughed aloud. "I think you're right," he said to Padraig, clapping him on the shoulder. "Come on, it's too dark in here to work any more today. I'll let you buy me a free mystery drink at your place."


	9. Coming Home

The clock in the front room at the parish rectory chimed half-two as Peter paced slowly in front of Father MacAnally's closed office door. He felt less like a grown man embarking on a new chapter in his life than a small, obstreperous boy waiting to see the principal. He found himself wondering, as the minutes ticked by, whether Father Mac was really on a phone call, as the housekeeper had said, or if he was just making Peter sweat it out.

After what seemed like an hour but was probably not more than ten minutes the door swung open. "Peter. Come in." It was an invitation in form but a command in tone. Peter entered the room where he had seethed through so many meetings with his superior and felt more keenly than ever the imbalance of power. Dressed as usual in black suit and collar, Father Mac sat behind his massive wooden desk. He waved Peter into a chair opposite and studied him thoughtfully. Peter, who was wearing the clothes he had been traveling all day in, began to wish he had taken the time to clean up and change before this meeting.

Finally, Father Mac signed and leaned back in his chair. "Your mother is well, I hope?"

Peter was taken aback. This was not the way he had expected the conversation to begin. "Yes, Father. Thank you for asking."

"And how did she take your news?"

How to describe his mother's reaction…. She'd been disappointed, surely, but had not tried to influence him, had been ultimately accepting…especially after meeting Assumpta. Best not to mention that now. "Matter-of-factly, I suppose,"

Father Mac nodded. Bristling slightly with remembered annoyance he went on,

"And judging from the reception I received in Fitzgerald's yesterday I'm guessing you've spoken to herself as well."

_A worse reception than usual? _Peter called on every scrap of self-control and professional training he had in order to keep from either blushing or laughing. "I have," he replied calmly.

Silence hung heavy between the two men, but Peter volunteered no further information, so the parish priest cleared his throat and moved on to the next topic. "Now, what do you plan to say to the congregation at St. Joseph's tomorrow morning?"

Peter pulled a sheet of paper from his shirt pocket, unfolded it and passed it across the desk. It was an outline he'd made on the plane, in the few lucid moments between the euphoric anticipation of seeing Assumpta again and the terror of having to reintroduce himself to the community without the buffer of suit and collar.

Father Mac scanned the paper, raised his eyebrows, and glanced up at Peter. "I Corinthians 12? You do realize you won't be giving the homily?"

"I'm sure you'll agree, Father, that it's not only sermons that should have a scriptural basis."

"Hmph." He continued reading, uttering a phrase under his breath now and then. "…still feel strongly the call to service…no longer called to the priesthood…ask for your understanding, friendship and prayers…" When he had finished he sighed deeply and handed the paper back to Peter, who folded it and tucked it back in his pocket. "Well said. I expect many will be saddened, as I am. You've touched a lot of lives in Ballykissangel."

"Thank you, Father. I hope to go on doing so, in some capacity."

The older man looked at him intently. "Have you made arrangements for where you'll go after tomorrow? You must realize you can't stay in town while we transition to a new priest."

Panic squeezed Peter's chest. "What?! But I want to stay. You've just said the parishioners will want me to stay!"

"That's precisely why you must leave. No new priest can win trust in a parish when his predecessor is still there for the people to lean on."

"I'm not going to interfere. After all, I'm stepping down willingly!"

"I'm sorry, Peter. It's nothing personal. This is diocesan policy, even in cases of retirement. Now, if we had another priest who was familiar with the community, it might be different, but you know yourself the shortage of local priests."

"But…" Peter fought for control. "I've nowhere else to go, apart from back to England."

"I'll give you a week to get your feet under you and work it out. That will still get you out of town before we can move anyone else in." Father Mac stood, signaling that the meeting was over. "I'll see you before Mass tomorrow. Oh, I forgot to mention. You'll need to see Brian Quigley about your belongings. He's rented out your…the curate's house, much to everyone's consternation."

And before he could gather his thoughts, Peter found himself back on the street. It seemed appropriate that the sky, bright blue upon his arrival in Cilldargen, had turned one of the darker of the forty shades of gray Assumpta had spoken about on the day they met.

---

Assumpta sprinkled parsely over the potatoes and carried them to the table. On her way back to the counter she stopped to tickle Kieran in his bassinet and was rewarded with a delighted smile and waving of arms. Much to her surprise, she was finding that she quite enjoyed being in a house with a baby. Before now she had minded Kieran for short periods, mostly while he was sleeping, but had not spent much time around babies otherwise. Her mind strayed to one memorable exception, the night she had spent helping Peter care for the newborn abandoned on his doorstep.

"What are you grinning about?" Ambrose inquired, walking into the kitchen.

Assumpta shook herself back to the present. "I'm smiling at your son, Ambrose. Is that such an odd thing to do?" She busied herself filling water glasses.

The front door banged open and Brian Quigley's voice called out, "Where's my grandson?"

"In here, Dad," Niamh called back. "You're just in time for supper."

Brian scooped Kieran up and help him high in the air. "Granddad would have been here earlier," he told the child, "but your Uncle Peter stopped by and he was very short with me."

Niamh nudged Assumpta with her elbow. Ambrose looked up from the newspaper with mild interest. "Oh, Father Clifford's back, is he?"

"You can hardly blame the poor man for being a bit put out, Dad," said Niamh. "How would you like it if someone went into your house while you were away and took all your things out?"

"I'd call the Gards," Brian said cheerfully. "The difference being that I own my house and Father Clifford lives rent free in a house I make available to him out of the kindness of my heart."

"Which is subject to cancellation without notice, apparently," Assumpta commented acerbically.

"Did you at least offer him a place to sleep for the night?" Niamh asked, bringing the last dish to the table and taking her seat. The others moved to join her.

"Of course I did. He said he'd prefer the company in the sacristy. Took his sleeping bag and stormed off." Brian spooned glazed carrots onto his plate and passed the dish to Assumpta who served herself a miniscule portion. The thought of Peter, back in Ballykea and not a quarter mile up the street, produced butterflies in her stomach that made eating…or even sitting still at the dinner table, for that matter…seem nearly impossible.

Niamh kicked her under the table and Assumpta realized that Ambrose and Brian were looking at her expectantly. "Sorry…what?"

"How goes the clean-up, I said," repeated Brian, in the exaggeratedly patient tone generally reserved for someone who was not quite right in the head.

Assumpta forced her attention back to the table. "Oh…em…not bad, actually. I think we'll be ready for the electrical work by Monday. Are you still willing to manage the project for me, Brian?"

"Willing and able," he replied magnanimously. "I'll stop by after Mass, shall I, and we'll discuss the details."

"Fine," said Assumpta. _That should work out well for you. I'll be lucky if I can remember my own name after Mass tomorrow! _She spent the rest of the meal rearranging the food on her plate. The few bites she ate sat like cement in her stomach. It was a great relief when everyone had finished eating and she could occupy herself with clearing the table and washing up.

The second time she dropped a handful of silverware that Niamh handed her to dry, her friend burst out laughing. "Oh, go on up there, would you? You're useless here, that's for sure!"

A nervous smile tugged at Assumpta's lips. "D'you really think I should?"

"Of course you should!" Niamh gave her a gentle shove toward the door. "Wait…take a plate along with you. He probably hasn't eaten."

Assumpta gave her a grateful hug. "Thanks, Niamh."

"Yeah, well…just remember when you see my dad and Ambrose what a nice visit you had with Siobhan."

---

It had been one of the first warm days of spring and the stone bench where Peter sat looking out into the dark churchyard still held some of the sun's warmth. The air smelled faintly of the climbing roses that were just beginning to bloom. Leftover clouds from the afternoon's shower were parting and a huge moon peeked up over the hills. Peter tipped his head back, absorbing the calm.

_I lift mine eyes unto the hills_

_From whence cometh my help?_

_My help cometh from the Lord_

_Who made heaven and earth._

His irritation at finding he had no house to return to had dissipated and it felt right, somehow, to be spending this night in the church. A leave-taking.

The moon was in the treetops by the time he felt, rather than heard, her behind him and turned. Assumpta stood hesitantly at the corner of the church, not wanting to intrude. There was no need to fight that familiar surge of his pulse; instead he let it flow through him. "Hiya." His voice was low and soft, befitting the night.

"Hi. Want company?"

"Always." He made room for her to sit beside him on the bench. "I was hoping you'd come."

"Niamh sent you some supper. I think she wanted to make up for her father having kicked you out of your house." Assumpta set the plate down next to the bench.

Peter chuckled. "Oh well. It would only have been my house for one more night anyway."

"Yeah, but he doesn't know that," she replied, taking the seat next to him. She resisted the magnet pull that drew her closer, mindful of the view from the street. When she spoke again it was in a tone that was almost an accusation. "I _missed_ you!"

Peter grinned and raised an eyebrow. "Oh, and I didn't miss you, I suppose," he teased. "That had to be the longest two days in history." _And there are more to come._ The memory of his conversation with Father Mac erased the grin from his face and clenched his hands into fists.

"Peter? What's wrong?"

He gave a bitter laugh, "Oh, Father Mac, as usual."

"What's he done now?"

Peter unclenched his fists, laid his hands on his knees and stared at them. "He wants me to leave town…for awhile. Apparently there's some diocesan rule that says if the new priest is unfamiliar with the community the old one has to clear out until he gets settled."

Assumpta's eyes sparked. "Is there someone in the Church whose job it is to sit around making up ridiculous rules?" she demanded.

"No, I think it's a collaborative process."

She blew her breath out in exasperation. "When?"

"He's given me a week's grace period."

"Oh, how generous!" Her voice dripped sarcasm. "At which point he won't actually be your boss anymore, right?"

Peter shook his head. "He's my boss until the Vatican says otherwise," he replied, "and I don't want to do anything to jeopardize that process." He laughed softly and looked up at her. "Did you ever see that cartoon of the butterfly that flies straight out of its chrysalis and into a spider web? That's how I feel."

Assumpta cast a glance over her shoulder. The street was still deserted. She closed the small distance between them and slipped her hand into his. "Well, you know what they say."

"What's that?" Peter asked, closing his hand over Assumpta's.

"Float like a butterfly; sting like a bee."

He looked doubtful. "You're quoting Muhammed Ali now?"

She shrugged. "Best I could come up with on short notice. Besides, a lot can happen in a week. Just think where we were a week ago tonight."

"Mmmm." He buried his face in her hair. "You're right. This is much nicer."

Assumpta laid her head against his shoulder and they sat in stillness, each exquisitely aware of the other, of the sweet, night air surrounding them, of the completeness of being together, of the promise of the future. Finally, reluctantly, Assumpta stirred and rose. "I should get back."

"I know."

She stood still for a moment, looking down at him, her expression soft and completely unguarded. Then with a cheeky grin, she turned to go, "Give 'em hell tomorrow!"

His laughter followed her back toward the street.


	10. Come Sunday

Dan Clifford fidgeted in his seat and checked his watch again. There was no traffic…it was Sunday morning, for heaven's sake…why was the bus moving so slowly? Dan hated being late, always left himself extra time to get where he was going, but it looked like he was going to have to jog from the bus stop in order to get to St. Benedict's in time for Mass anyway. _Should've ridden a bike_. He shook his head in disgust.

When he came back to St. Ben's for mass he usually came on Saturday evening in order to leave himself all of Sunday free for getting out of the city on his bike or on foot. James and Ellie usually took the kids early to Children's Mass. They had all decided to go together today to offer Mary some moral support. She was sure to be thinking of Peter, speaking to his congregation at the same hour.

When they were altar boys together it had been Dan's job to get Peter to mass on time, a fact he'd often laughed about in recent years. Pete would get up at a reasonable time, but then he would sit around eating toast and jam and reading a book until it was so late that they would have to run to make it on time. It drove Dan mad.

Of course, that never kept him from taking his moral compass bearings from his older brother who, even as a teenager, had an uncanny knack for knowing the right thing to do or say. Dan still sometimes found himself applying what he thought of as the "what-would-Peter-do test" when faced with a particularly sticky dilemma. His friend Rose, the psychologist, said that was why he was having such a hard time accepting Peter's decision to leave the priesthood. "You're being asked to admit to the humanity…the fallibility…of a hero, Danny. That's hard for anyone. Especially since he's your big brother besides being a priest." Maybe she was right. It just seemed sort of like…well, giving up.

Dan was vaguely aware that the bus had stopped and let several more passengers on, but paid no attention until he heard a soft-spoken female voice from the seat behind him. "Dan Clifford, isn't it?"

He turned, groaned inwardly. Wasn't it enough to be running late without also having to endure what was sure to be an awkward conversation? "Jenny! How are you?" he exclaimed, with as much warmth as he could muster.

"I'm fine." She gestured to the empty seat next to him. "Do you mind…?"

"Not at all." His heart dropped further. _Can't apply the what-would-Peter-do test here,_ he thought rather snidely. _There's no place to run_.

He knew Jenny Clark because, despite having grown up in different neighborhoods and different churches, they had been in the same year at St. James High School. He knew because Peter had told him that Jenny was the reason his brother had requested a transfer out of Manchester and that she had shown up on an unexpected visit in Ballykissangel, an uncomfortable episode for a priest in a new parish. How odd that he would run into her on this particular day.

"Going to St. Ben's?" she asked now, settling herself beside him.

Dan nodded. "Keeping Mum company at mass. You?"

"The same, actually…well, my aunt, that is. She's all alone since her husband died, so I try to keep an eye on her when I can."

Dan tried not to let his skepticism show, but he was sure he'd never seen Jenny at St. Benedict's before now. "That's very nice of you."

Jenny shrugged. "She's family." She glanced sideways at him. "Speaking of which, I could have sworn I saw Peter at the train station a couple of days ago. Is he home for a visit?"

So that was it. _All right, Peter. What now? Let's try the simple truth and see where that gets us._ "He was. He's gone back to Ireland now. Left yesterday morning."

She nodded. "Had to be back for mass, I suppose."

"Yes." _Though not for the reason you think._

"It looked as if he was seeing someone off – a friend of the family, maybe?"

The simple truth was getting more complicated by the second. "No, a friend of his from Ireland, actually."

Her laugh sounded forced. "Bit unusual for a Catholic priest to bring a woman home for a visit, isn't it?"

She was fishing, for sure. Dan struggled to keep his voice neutral. "I don't know, Jenny. Not so much more unusual than for a woman to arrive unannounced on a personal visit to her former priest, do you think?"

Patches of red appeared on Jenny's cheekbones, and her eyes narrowed. She appeared to be about to respond, but at that moment the bus rumbled to a halt. It was their stop. Jenny snatched up her bag and made for the door, never looking back. Dan wasn't far behind, but she was moving so fast that he had to break into a jog to catch up to her on the sidewalk. "Jenny, wait!"

No response.

"Jenny, please. I didn't mean to upset you."

She spun around, angry and embarrassed. "I can't believe he told you about that. I thought priests were supposed to be good at keeping secrets."

Dan nodded. "I guess they have enough of other people's secrets to keep without keeping their own too." He added, self-deprecatingly, "Sometimes they even confide in their kid brothers."

"Who else?" Jenny demanded.

"Jamie. That's it, as far as I know."

She sighed heavily. "It was the woman who runs the pub, wasn't it?"

"Yes. Assumpta Fitzgerald."

"I don't suppose she was here on business."

"No." He searched for the balancing point between enough information and too much. "About a week ago Peter went on retreat at the urging of his parish priest. He did a lot of soul-searching and decided to leave the priesthood. So, of course he came home to break the news to Mum. The folks back in Ireland heard that he'd left, but no one knew what was going on. Assumpta was worried and came to see for herself if he was all right. She's been a good friend to him." It was odd, Dan thought, how explaining the situation to Jenny somehow made his own resentment ease – not entirely, but it was a start.

"'Good friends' is not what I saw at the station," Jenny said bitterly.

Dan saw no point in arguing. They walked in silence for a moment. "Listen, Jenny," Dan said, "I know this is a lot to ask, but I hope you'll let this all come out in its own time. You're the only one here who knows what's happening, apart from the family. Peter's staying in Ireland, so it won't hurt him if rumors start to spread, but it would be hard on Mum. She doesn't need that."

Jenny stared straight ahead. Her shoulders sagged.

"This must be really difficult for you," Dan offered.

She shrugged. "I thought I'd put it all behind me," she said. "Now I guess I have to do it all over again."

They reached the steps of St. Benedict's just as the bells started to ring. Jenny paused with her hand on the door and turned to look at Dan. "Thanks for telling me," she said. He nodded.

As he slid into the pew next to Jamie a minute later, his brother shot him a questioning look. "Rough go of it this morning?," he asked under his breath.

Dan rolled his eyes. "I'm never taking the bus again."

Jamie tipped his head toward Jenny, who had just taken a seat beside an older woman, her aunt, presumably, on the other side of the sanctuary. "What's she doing here?"

"She saw Peter and Assumpta at the train station. Thought he might be here today, I'm guessing."

Jamie grimaced. "Of all people…"

"Yeah. Hell hath no fury."

"Is she going to make trouble?"

Dan shrugged. "I think I talked her down."

His brother nodded approval. "Good man."

Sophie leaned across her mother's lap, frowning sternly. "Daddy, no talking in church!" she scolded in a loud stage whisper. Beyond her, Mary seconded the reprimand with a finger to her lips.

"Sorry, Mum," Dan mouthed. The organ began to play and the family stood together to add their voices to the hymn.

---

It was time. At a nod from Father MacAnally, Peter rose and moved toward the pulpit. Pausing to reverence the altar he searched for any twinge of guilt or remorse. No, he was at peace with the step he was about to take. He took his place behind the pulpit, scanned the familiar faces in the pews before him. Once the initial rustle of whispers at finding him present, but seated apart and clad in a plain white alb instead of his customary green vestments had subsided, the congregation had been, if anything, more attentive than usual. They waited now to see what he would say.

These were good, genuine people, Peter thought, with a rush of affection. He was fortunate to have come to live among them. There was Moira Kilfeather, sitting very straight in the far back row, still fighting the guilt of having beaten her abusive lout of a husband with an iron skillet. On the other side and few rows up was Declan Rourke, trying unobtrusively to work his tall body into a more comfortable position on the unforgiving pew. The eldest son of a farm family, Declan never failed to strike up a discussion about football with Peter when he visited the youth club. In their usual spot in the fourth row, Niamh and Ambrose were tending to Kieran, who was beginning to squirm and fuss, but Brian was regarding Peter with his shrewd businessman's curiosity. Behind them sat Brendan and Siobhan.

Brendan caught Peter's eye and gave him an encouraging nod. Peter smiled at him then broadened his gaze to include the entire congregation. Taking a deep breath, he began to read the passage from I Corinthians…

_There are different kinds of gifts, but the same Spirit._

_There are different kinds of service, but the same Lord._

_There are different kinds of working, but the same God works all of them in all men._

---

As they always did when there was news to be hashed over, the locals began to gather in Fitzgerald's. It didn't seem to matter that furniture was scattered haphazardly around the room, intermingled with stepladders and mop buckets, or that no one offered to serve them anything. They just wanted to talk with their neighbors, and this was the best place they knew to do it.

Assumpta's mood darkened with each table that filled. She wished she'd thought to lock the door before mass had ended. _Oh, stop it, _she chided herself. _On any other Sunday you'd be thrilled to have a crowd like this! _Of course, on any other Sunday it would be a paying crowd, but that was not the real problem. The real problem was simply that this was _not_ just any other Sunday.

She struggled to focus her attention on Brian Quigley, who sat across the table expounding upon the repairs that needed to be done, the excellent qualifications of his electrician friend, the intricacies of insurance, payment… She would be lucky to remember half of what he was saying. Then suddenly, Brian wasn't talking anymore, and Assumpta realized that no one else was either. She turned, along with everyone else in the bar, and there was Peter, standing in the door, framed in sunlight.

There was no collar now to set him apart, yet he still seemed to be standing on one edge of a chasm with the rest of the community on the other. Would they embrace or spurn him now that it was their choice to make? All of Assumpta's instincts told her to go to him, to bridge the gap, but she knew it was not the time for that. There was nothing to do but wait…again. Peter surveyed the room. He grinned nervously and demanded, in a surprisingly respectable imitation of Assumpta's brassiest brogue, "Have you no homes to go to?"

A chorus of laughter dissolved the tension that had filled the pub. Michael Ryan strode forward with hand outstretched to clasp Peter in a warm handshake. Padraig was close behind. Soon the room was filled with talk and laughter again and Peter was drawn into a circle of well-wishers and obscured from view.

Assumpta released a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. Relief. They were welcoming him home as one of their own, as she'd assured Mary they would. That part was going to be all right. Now if only there weren't so damn much waiting. Turning back to Brian she said, rather more brusquely than was necessary, "So, are we finished here, then?"

He raised his eyebrows. "Whatever happened to, 'Thank you, Brian. It's a pleasure doing business with you.'?"

"We'll see about that once the lights are back on and it hasn't taken a month or cost me my life's savings."

He shook his head. "You'd catch more flies with honey, you know, Assumpta."

"I don't have flies in my pub, Brian," she replied with a saccharine smile.

"Or priests, if memory serves," Brian retorted, glancing over her shoulder.

Assumpta knew before she looked up that Peter's warm green eyes would be smiling down at her. Her stomach flip-flopped and she felt her face threatening to break into the idiotic grin she found herself wearing so often these days. _None of that. Not with Quigley looking on._ She broke her gaze away from Peter's and gestured around the bar. "The next time you decide to draw a crowd to my pub, could you at least do it on a day when I've got something to sell them?"

"I'll make a note of it." His voice took on the light, teasing tone of their usual banter, but Assumpta could tell from his expression that he had noticed the effect his presence was having on her and that he was quite enjoying it. She glared at him.

"Quite the announcement this morning, Father," Brian remarked jovially. "It's no wonder you were in a temper yesterday with something like that on your mind."

Peter turned to him with a wry chuckle. "Well, yeah, that and discovering that you'd moved all my things out of my house and let someone else live in it."

"Look. I wouldn't be much of a businessman if I chose one unpaying tenant who was off gallivanting around somewhere over two paying ones who were right in front of my nose, would I?"

Peter laughed. "It's true what they say about you, Brian: your generosity is matched only by your tact."

Quigley leaned back in his chair, regarding Peter as though he was considering something. After a moment he said, "Ah, never mind, Father. I'll make it up to you."

Peter raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"There's no sense in you moving all your things when I've got nothing but room. You might as well stay at the house until you've got your feet under you."

Peter was a bit taken aback by the offer and saw his own suspicion mirrored in Assumpta's face. "That's a lovely offer, Brian, but bear in mind I don't have a job at present. I wouldn't be able to pay rent."

Brian waved his hand dismissively. "I'm used to that by now, wouldn't you say?"

Peter hesitated. He had been planning to beg a spot on Brendan's couch and had been looking forward to the camaraderie of staying with his friend for awhile. On the other hand he knew that Father Mac and the town gossips would consider rooming with Quigley a more respectable choice. Finally he said, "That's very kind of you, Brian. I'd be grateful."

"Good!" Quigley stood and pushed in his chair. "By the way, what are you planning to do with all your free time this afternoon?"

Peter looked down, indicating his attire – faded jeans and a t-shirt liberally spotted with paint the color of Kathleen's living room. "I thought I'd see if I could lend a hand with the clean-up operation here. Why?"

"Ah, it's too nice a day to spend cooped up with a scrub brush! Why don't you come down and have a kick about with the lads? Three o'clock." With a nod to Assumpta, Brian walked purposefully out of the pub.

Peter and Assumpta watched him go. "What's he after, do you think?" Peter asked, feeling vaguely uneasy.

Assumpta shook her head. "I haven't figured it out yet, but there's sure to be something. It is Brian, after all." Then she stood and smiled at him. "Well. Let's get you that bucket and sponge, shall we?"

Peter spread his hands. "I'm all yours…until three o'clock, at least."

Assumpta shot him a wicked look. "Better be longer than _that_!" she said, just loudly enough for him to hear. Trying to keep the spring from her step, she went to gather cleaning supplies.


	11. Not According to Plan

Three o'clock came and went. After it became clear that no more dramatics were forthcoming and that there really were no drinks to be had, the crowd drifted out of Fitzgerald's in twos and threes. Brendan, Siobhan, Padraig, Michael and Peter stayed to lend a hand, but shortly after Peter jogged off toward the empty field the local footballers used for practice, the others found excuses to take their leave as well.

Left alone, Assumpta let out a sigh that was half relief, half regret and flopped into an easy chair. The impact of her body sent up a puff of air that smelled faintly of smoke, but mostly of the fresh air and sunshine the chair had soaked up during its time out in front of the pub. Assumpta surveyed the room and decided that the rest of the bar was in about the same condition. It still needed fresh paint here and there and she hadn't bothered to shine the brass yet. The floor was scarred, but it was getting a sanding and new coat of varnish tomorrow afternoon and should come out looking better than it had before. The place had been scrubbed within an inch of its life. With a new carpet and some new curtains – the ones Niamh had taken home to wash had come back in tatters – it would be well on its way to welcoming customers again.

Assumpta made a mental list of jobs yet to be done and supplies and stock to be gotten in. It would be tight, but she thought she could reasonably plan a grand reopening for Friday night and not miss another weekend of income. She'd call the kitchen staff and extra bartenders who helped out at special events and see if they could come in. There should be a banner across the front of the pub and maybe some posters around town, though word-of-mouth advertising always worked best in Ballykea. And she'd have to do something about music – not a band though, at the prices they charged. A D.J.? She wondered if Kathleen's nephew…what was his name? David? Daniel?...was still running the radio station at the hospital. Peter would know. At the thought, her eyes drifted to the door. _You're doing it again!_

She rose and puttered around the bar, putting away cleaning supplies and straightening things there was really no need to straighten as the afternoon waned and the light grew dimmer and dimmer. Soon it would be too dark to work any longer, and Niamh would be wondering what was keeping her. She would probably be required to rehash the events of the day, or at least listen as Niamh and Ambrose rehashed them.

A wave of exhaustion swept away the last of the adrenaline that had gotten Assumpta through the afternoon. She could not possibly move one more step, face one more person. She slid onto a barstool and leaned on the bar, resting her head on her folded arms_. _Just a minute or two of solitude and then she would lock up. Her eyes drifted closed and her thoughts slowed to a drowsy haze. She had very nearly fallen asleep when the door opened and Peter came in. He peered around the room, unable to see anything but obscure shapes in the twilight. "Assumpta?" he called quietly.

She startled, lifted her head. "Here."

Closing the door behind him, he crossed the room to her. Her hair was tousled and her skin flushed. She gave him a sleepy smile. It was impossible not to touch her. He lifted his hand, drew his fingertips softly across her cheek, heard her soft intake of breath. The power of his response to her was terrifying. Every emotion, feeling, sensation he'd spend the better part of a decade training himself not to feel rushed through his body at once. He dropped his hand, took an involuntary half-step backwards.

Assumpta looked at him quizzically. "All right?"

"Yeah." He sat on the stool next to her and drew a shaky breath. "It's just…I don't know. It was a big day."

"For me, too."

He nodded. "I know. Were you sleeping just now?"

Assumpta sighed. "No. Just…delaying the inevitable."

"Ah, the plight of the refugee."

"Takes one to know one. Didn't Brian give you a curfew?"

Peter chuckled. "I told him I needed to get something from the shed. I'm not sure what it is yet, though."

"Well, watch out for the tenants when you go…" Assumpta's voice trailed off and a frown came over her face as she trained her eyes on the window beside the door.

Peter turned to look, too. "What?"

"Shhh…" Assumpta whispered. "I thought I saw…there!"

It was on the other side of the door now, but the form looking through the window was unmistakable, even in the near-dark. Not too tall, black jacket, thick gray hair. It was Father Mac.

"Who does he think he is?" Assumpta hissed. She slid off her stool and started for the door, but Peter caught her wrist.

"Wait."

She stared daggers at him, but stood still, and after a moment the figure outside the window walked away. Assumpta jerked her arm out of Peter's grasp. "He was _spying_ on us."

"Either that or looking for a cup of tea."

"It's not funny!"

"Sorry. Look, Assumpta, he can't have seen us. I could barely see you after I was all the way through the door."

"That's not the point!" Her voice rose indignantly. "What's he going to do for fun once he doesn't have you to babysit anymore?"

"Babysit the next fellow, I suppose."

"And what are _you_ going to do?" The question hung in the air for a moment while she struggled for control. "Listen, Peter, I'm too tired for this right now. I'm going to go to Niamh's before I say something I really regret."

She was halfway to the door before Peter, his head spinning, got to his feet. "Assumpta, wait!" He followed her onto the sidewalk, where she already had the key in the lock.

"No. Not tonight, Peter. I'll see you in the morning, okay?"

He stared after her retreating form helplessly. "See you then," he called after her. How had a day that had begun with such hope ended like this? It was not at all the good-night he'd been hoping for.

---

Morning dawned dreary and wet. Peter gave his head a shake to clear the raindrops from his eyes as his bicycle coasted down the road from the Quigley residence to the village. There had been no response but a discouraging clicking sound when he'd tried to start his little red car on Saturday, so he'd left it where it sat in front of the curate's house. He'd never much liked that car anyway. But now, as dampness seeped through the shoulders of his jacket he was beginning to think perhaps he should have tried a little harder.

_Maybe she'll have the fire going, _he thought hopefully, propping the bike next to Fitzgerald's blue door. He was in favor of anything that might help restore the easy camaraderie of working alongside Assumpta. He still was not sure where last night had gone wrong, but he wanted desperately to make it right. He took a deep breath, opened the door, and knew immediately the day was headed in a different direction altogether.

"What, are you throwing me out of my own pub now?" Assumpta stood, hands on hips, glaring at Brian. "How am I supposed to be ready for a grand reopening on Friday if I lose a full day's work?"

Brian held his ground. "You can't reopen at all without electrical," he fired back, "and we can't be climbing over mop buckets and paint cans every time we need to run a wire!"

"You could have mentioned this yesterday, Brian. What do you expect me to do with myself all day?"

"How should I know? Go and drink tea with Niamh! Don't you have some errands you can run?" He nodded towards Peter, standing just inside the door. "Take him with you, why don't you? Sure, he doesn't have anything better to do!"

Assumpta registered Peter's presence for the first time, but her expression didn't soften. She fairly growled in frustration, grabbed her coat from its peg and stormed toward the door. Halfway out, she turned to glare back at him. "Well? Are you coming or not?"

---

"So, Kieran, what should you and Mummy do today?" Niamh wondered. Filling the kettle at her kitchen sink, she looked out at the dismal morning. Two raindrops joined forces to become a larger rivulet in their journey across the windowpane. "I suppose a walk down to the lake is out of the question."

Her _Maternity and Infant _magazines, which she had enthusiastically subscribed to before Kieran was born, were full of lovely outings for mother and baby. Museums, playgroups, exercise classes – all fine if you lived in London or Dublin, but not likely in Ballykissangel. There was never a column on how to amuse yourself and your baby on a rainy day in rural Ireland when the pub's shut for repairs. And this morning, with Ambrose on duty in his office and Assumpta off working on the clean-up at Fitzgerald's…well, what was that old song about rainy days and Mondays?

Niamh carried the kettle to the cooker and turned the heat on under it. She was halfway through filling a bottle for Kieran when the doorbell rang. "Come in!" she called out. Nothing. Heaving an exasperated sigh, she put the bottle down and went to see who it was. She found Siobhan on the doorstep, huddling inside a raincoat and peering through the rain at something going on down the street. Following her gaze, Niamh saw Assumpta's van start up and pull away from the curb.

Both women raised their hands in greeting as the van passed with Assumpta at the wheel and Peter beside her. Siobhan grinned. "Going off unsupervised, so," she observed archly. "Yesterday at the pub you'd have thought they'd never set eyes on each other before."

Niamh's eyes opened wide. "How did you know?" she demanded.

Siobhan shrugged, still grinning. "Oh, Brendan told me, officially," she answered, "but it's no real surprise, is it? The way they've been dancin' around each other the past couple of years." She nodded past Niamh. "It's a bit damp out here. All right if I come in?"

"Sorry." Niamh swung the door wide and stepped back to let Siobhan through. "Are you looking for Ambrose?"

"No, I'm looking for you."

Niamh could not recall that Siobhan had ever come calling before. They would chat at the pub or the shop, of course, but there were quite a few years between them and, though Niamh would never admit it aloud, she was a little intimidated by Siobhan's easy intellect and who knew how many years of education. '_No real surprise,' is it?_ she scoffed to herself. _Some of us were surprised enough._

A shrill whistle from below reminded her what she'd been doing before the doorbell rang. "There's the kettle," she said aloud. "Hang up your coat and come have a cup of tea with me." She descended the stairs to the kitchen and was filling two mugs and the pan she used for warming Kieran's bottle when Siobhan joined her. "No calls for you this morning?" The vet always seemed to be on her way off to one farm or another.

"I wish," Siobhan answered grimly. "I've got to go and see about one of Will Ritchey's cows that's come up lame. Nothing better in a downpour than looking at cow feet."

Niamh glanced at her with interest. "I always thought you loved your job," she remarked, waving Siobhan towards a seat at the table.

"And I thought you loved being a mother, but it doesn't seem to stop you from climbing the walls some days."

"Well, aren't you just full of observations this morning!" Niamh retrieved Kieran from his bassinet and came to sit across from Siobhan.

The older woman watched her settle the baby into the crook of her arm. "So…what's it like?"

"What's what like?" Niamh asked, reaching for her tea with her free hand.

Siobhan made a vague gesture in the air. "Pregnancy, childbirth, motherhood…you know, the whole bit."

Niamh raised her eyebrows. "In twenty-five words or less? Thinking of taking it up yourself, are you?"

"I am, actually." The fact that this was so hard for everyone to imagine was beginning to irritate Siobhan. "I'm pregnant."

Niamh's mouth dropped open, then spread into a wide, sparkling smile. "Siobhan! Congratulations! That's wonderful news!"

Siobhan's irritation dissolved and she felt the unexpected prickling of tears behind her eyes. "Well, thank you. I haven't been getting that reaction from too many people."

"Why not? Of course it's wonderful!" But it occurred to Niamh suddenly that Siobhan's situation was a bit different from her own. With effort she reined in her excitement. "I mean, it is, isn't it?"

"Yes." There was a hint of hesitation in Siobhan's reply. "It is, I think. A bit…em…unexpected, is all."

Niamh removed the bottle from the pan and tested the temperature of its contents on the inside of her wrist. She offered it to Kieran, then settled in for the details. "How are you feeling so far?"

Siobhan shrugged. "Knackered. I haven't tossed my breakfast yet, but I feel as though I'm just about to most of the time. At this rate I'm going to gain eighty pounds on biscuits."

"You poor thing." Niamh paused and gathered her courage for a moment before venturing, "And, the father…?"

"Is Brendan."

Niamh's mouth dropped open again, but this time she burst into such peals of laughter that Kieran jumped and choked on his milk. Niamh lifted him to her shoulder and patted his back. "Siobhan Mehigan!" she exclaimed.

"I know, I know," Siobhan replied sheepishly. "There was rather a lot of whiskey involved."

Niamh shook her head, still chuckling, and resumed Kieran's feeding. "You've told him, I hope?"

"Of course, I've told him!"

"How'd he take it?"

"Behaved like a total ass. He's been falling all over himself for the better part of a week trying to make up for it."

Niamh was off on another peal of laughter.

"Go on, have your fun." Siobhan sipped her tea.

With effort, Niamh regained her composure. "I'm sorry," she sputtered, eyes dancing with suppressed mirth. "It's just…first Assumpta and Peter, now you and Brendan…is there something in the water over at Fitzgerald's, or what?"

"Have you ever seen anyone drink water at Fitzgerald's?"

"Well, you won't have much choice now. No alcohol, no soft cheese, no shellfish…have they added anything in the past two months?"

Siobhan made a face. "Seems like the only interesting thing that's _not_ on the list is sex."

"You might want to go a bit easy on Brendan, then, don't you think?"

"Niamh!"

Niamh shrugged. "I'm only saying, at some point you may find you want a partner – of some kind – and it would be too bad to have burned your bridges."

"I don't want to give him the satisfaction."

The look Niamh gave her was reminiscent of the one Siobhan had seen her use on the unruly boys in Brendan's class. "Are you asking for my advice, Siobhan? Because I'm about to give it to you."

"Since when do you wait to be asked?"

There was that look again. Siobhan threw up her hands. "All right, all right, I'm asking!"

Niamh nodded. "Good. First off, I can't imagine doing this," she tipped her head towards Kieran, "all on my own. I mean, I know people do, but personally I'll take all the help I can get."

Siobhan nodded. "Fair enough."

Niamh continued. "Now. Put yourself in Brendan's shoes for a minute. He's just found out he's going to be a father, and he's a bit shocked, of course, because he'd probably just about given up on that possibility. And then on top of it all he's got to wait on your say so to find out not just whether he gets to have anything at all to do with the baby but also whether he's lost his best friend. You can understand why he might be a bit panicked."

Siobhan gaped at her. She'd been so wrapped up in having been slighted that she'd completely overlooked how Brendan must be feeling. When exactly had Niamh Egan become so insightful? "Been taking counseling training from Peter, have you then, Niamh?" she asked finally.

Niamh set the empty bottle on the table and settled Kieran against her shoulder, patting his back. "No. But someone's going to have to keep this place in line while he's gone."

Siobhan's brow furrowed. "What do you mean, 'gone'?" she demanded.

"Oh, didn't you hear that part? The latest from Father Mac is that Peter's got to clear out 'til the new priest gets settled. He's given him a week to figure out where he's going to go."

"You've got to be joking."

"Not judging by the look on Assumpta's face when she told me."

"Of all the idiotic…" Siobhan broke off and pressed her lips together angrily. "We can't let that happen, you know. You saw how Assumpta was the last time Peter left town; she won't have any customers left if it happens again."

"What on earth are _we_ going to do about it?"

"I don't know yet." Siobhan drained the last of her tea and stood to go. "But we're two of the three smartest women in town. We'll figure something out."

Niamh found herself agreeing. She sat holding the now-sleeping Kieran and listening to the door close behind Siobhan. In the space of an hour she'd gone from bewailing her loneliness to doling out advice and plotting against the Church. Not a bad morning's work at all.


	12. Hurry Up and Wait

Peter clutched the door handle in a death grip as the van sped around another rain-slicked curve. She was in a temper today, that much was clear. What he hadn't figured out yet was what was behind it. Most people kept a safe distance from Assumpta in a temper, but Peter never had – never had been able to keep much of a distance under any circumstances. He knew better than most that what looked like anger could just as well be fear or frustration. The trick was telling the difference.

"Mind the sheep, there," he told her, his voice carefully mild, "You'll lose a customer if you take out one of Eamonn's girls."

"Oh, how would I ever manage without selling that one Diet Coke every other day?" Assumpta snapped. But she slowed to a slightly more reasonable speed.

"What're we after in Cilldargen?" Peter ventured.

"A new carpet, some cloth for curtains and some groceries." Assumpta sounded as though she were talking through clenched teeth. "Though where exactly I'm supposed to put them if I can't go into my own pub, I'm sure I don't know."

"You could store them at Niamh's if you needed to," Peter said evenly, "or leave most of them in the van, for that matter. The wiring should be done by the end of the day and then things will start to move along."

"_Some_ things," Assumpta said pointedly. "I don't know why I worry -- between Brian telling me how to run my business and the Church telling me how to run my life, I scarcely need to think for myself at all!"

Peter flinched. The familiar vitriol toward the Church seemed oddly more personal now that he was no longer in its employ. It went a long way towards explaining Assumpta's mood, though. He'd grown used to Father Mac checking up on him, but Assumpta saw last night's intrusion as another example of the Church trying to drive a wedge between them. "I don't like it either, Assumpta, but I'm trying to do this in a way that'll work out best in the long run."

"Oh, the _long_ run," she mimicked sarcastically. "You mean when Father Mac decides that it's all right for us to be together? Do you really think that's ever going to happen?"

"Come on, Assumpta. He hasn't made nearly as much trouble as I thought he might. And besides, this thing about giving the new priest time to settle in – that's the diocese speaking, not Father Mac."

Her laugh was sharp, bitter. "Oh please. Do you really believe that? Don't you ever get tired of just doing exactly what he tells you to do?"

If she'd reached across and slapped him it would not have cut any more deeply. "Assumpta, that's not fair…"

But she had pulled the car off to the side of the road, so angry now that she was shaking. "If you're going to be making excuses for him all day, I'd rather be by myself. Out!"

Peter struggled to keep his voice calm. "I'm not making excuses, I'm only saying…"

"Out!!"

He stared at her in disbelief. "Assumpta, we're halfway to Cilldargen, and it's pouring rain! How do you expect me to get back to town?"

"Maybe you'll get lucky and Father Mac will come along and give you a lift, since he's so helpful. Now, _out_!"

There was no reasoning with her, so Peter got out. Assumpta could see him in the rear-view mirror as she gunned the engine and pulled away, standing there with a hurt look on his face, turning up his collar for whatever protection it could offer against the rain. It served him right, if he was just going to go on letting the Church dictate his every move, and hers as well.

She seethed all the way into Cilldargen, blocking out that little voice that told her maybe she _was_ being unfair. But the voice refused to be silenced; in fact it grew steadily louder with every landmark she spotted. The driver's license testing centre. The spire of the parish church nearly piercing the low clouds off to her right. The distant clustered rooftops of the project where Mr. Quinn was helping his daughter Grainne raise the baby Father Mac had insisted should be put up for adoption. _Their _baby, Peter and Assumpta had joked, to cover the pain of its impossibility.

_What've I ever done to him?_

_You rock the boat!_

By the time Assumpta parked the van in front of McGowan's Carpet, panic gripped her chest so that she could hardly breathe. There was a nagging ache behind her left eye that Assumpta recognized as the beginnings of a migraine. What the hell was she doing? She'd been so desperate for Peter to return from Manchester, and now she was treating him like this? Never mind Father Mac making Peter leave – she was more than likely to drive him away herself!

She had no choice but to finish the shopping she had come to do; time was short enough that she could not afford another trip to Cilldargen before Friday. An hour and a half later, when she climbed back into the van for the return trip to Ballykissangel, her headache was in full swing. She held her head very carefully still as she drove and willed back the nausea, which the windy road did nothing to help. Periodic flashes of white light blurred her vision, forcing her to reduce speed even as she wished desperately to finish the trip as quickly as possible.

Assumpta had never been so glad to see the stone bridge that led into the village, or the lone figure looking down into the water. She parked the van on the gravel shoulder and walked toward him through the rain, which had slowed to a drizzle by now. She leaned against the wall beside him. After a moment's silence, Peter said quietly, "Seemed easier from a couple hundred miles away, somehow."

The pressure of tears behind her eyes intensified the pain. Assumpta shook her head. "Peter, I…" she began, but a wave of nausea overcame her. Clamping her hand over her mouth, she ran, just making it to the bushes on the riverbank before she vomited. _Oh, God, could this day possibly get worse?_ She felt Peter there behind her, sweeping back her hair and holding it at the nape of her neck. When she finally straightened and turned, his face was full of concern. He pulled a cloth handkerchief from his back pocket and handed it to her.

"Are you okay?"

She nodded, embarrassed. "I will be. It's a migraine." She chuckled weakly. "Stress induced."

"Ah."

"Real people our age don't carry these, you know," she told him, wiping her face with the handkerchief. "Besides, it's damp."

"Yeah, well…I got caught in the rain."

She grimaced. "About that...."

"Shhh." A hand on her back guided her toward the van. "We'll talk later. You need to be home in bed."

She groaned, passing the back of her hand across her eyes. "I'll have to go to Niamh's. Brian…"

"I'll deal with Brian." Peter held out his hand. "Keys?"

Assumpta sank gratefully into the passenger seat of the van, leaned her head back against the seat and closed her eyes as Peter drove the rest of the way to the pub and parked the van. "Right. Stay there. I'll be right back." And he was – opening the door and guiding her into the pub, past the workmen and up the stairs, through the door marked "Private".

_This is not how this was supposed to happen_, Assumpta thought, but she felt too sick to protest. As Peter drew the curtains, she sat on the edge of her bed, took off her shoes and crawled beneath the covers. Through a fog of half-sleep, she heard Peter ask, "Is there anything you need?"

She shook her head, eyes still closed. "Just sleep."

She looked so uncharacteristically vulnerable lying there, curled in a ball, her hair a jumble on the pillow. It tore at Peter's heart. She deserved a fairytale romance, not this charade of secrecy and delay. He drew a hand across her hair. "All right. I'll be back later to check on you."

---

The hallway at the National School smelled of wet socks. Siobhan wrinkled her nose as she made her way to Brendan's classroom. A country vet couldn't afford to be too picky about such things, but she preferred the smell inside Eamonn's pigsty to this. Ah, well. To each his own. There was a narrow window in the classroom door, and Siobhan peered through. The students were all bent industriously over their desks except for two who were working out long division problems on the blackboard. Brendan strolled among the desks, stopping here and there to point out corrections that needed to be made.

"Excuse me, missus." A small girl with fat blonde braids had come up behind her, returning from the lavatory, most likely.

"Sorry." Siobhan stepped aside so that she could open the door. "Would you ask Mr. Kearney if I could have a word, please?"

The girl went inside the classroom and spoke to Brendan, who looked up and caught Siobhan's eye through the window. His voice drifted out into the hallway. "All right. Courtney, why don't you work out number eleven for us on the board. The rest of you, check your work on that last problem. I'll be out in the hall for a minute and I don't want to be able to hear you from out there. That means you, Ryan." Fifteen pairs of eyes turned curiously toward the door to see what was going on. Anything was more interesting than long division.

He was frowning as he came through the door. "All right, Siobhan?" She'd barely been speaking to him the last week, let alone dropping by school to visit.

"Fine, fine." Siobhan shifted awkwardly on her feet. Her voice was just above a whisper. "Listen, Brendan. I've got an appointment with Michael at 4:00, and I wondered if you were available." She glanced up and down the hallway, making sure it was empty. "He said he might be able to find a heartbeat by now."

Brendan wasn't sure what he was hearing. "You…want me to come along?"

"Yes, you big eedjit, I want you to come along. Will you?"

"You know I will. Anything you want, Siobhan."

She raised her eyebrows. "I'm going to wish I had a witness for that one. Well, good, then. I'll meet you there, shall I?"

"All right." A hopeful smile softened the edges of Brendan's face. Siobhan smiled back. Through the window she saw a crumpled up piece of paper sailing through the air. She tipped her head toward the classroom. "I think the mice are playing."

Brendan followed her gaze in time to see the paper fly back across the classroom. His smile turned to a scowl. "It's been two minutes, for the love of God! This is the future of our country?"

Siobhan chuckled. "You'd better get back in there and straighten them out." She'd gone only a few steps down the hallway when Brendan called softly after her. "Siobhan?"

"Yes?"

"Have you told him? Michael?"

She winked at him. "And spoil the fun of seeing his face when we show up together?"

Brendan grinned. "Ah, you're right! Brilliant!"

This time she was almost to the corner. "Siobhan?" She turned. His face was serious now, earnest. "Thanks."

She smiled. "Ah, go on. I'll see you later."

---

Niamh was rather proud of the way she'd managed to fill the day since Siobhan's visit. The washing was folded and put away and she'd called to sort out the mix-up in the telephone bill. After ten minutes of wrangling with straps and buckles, she'd managed to get Kieran secured in his baby carrier and had done the hoovering with him strapped snugly to her chest.

While the baby took his afternoon nap, she set up the ironing board in front of the television and went to work on Ambrose's shirts. The chef on the cooking channel was making chicken with a lemon-caper sauce that Niamh felt certain she could replicate for dinner. So, after Kieran had woken and been fed and changed, she put him back in the baby carrier, accomplishing the task in slightly less time than before, and set out for Hendley's.

She found the proprietor alone in the shop, stocking shelves as though the tins had done her some personal wrong. Her head snapped around at the sound of the bell. "Oh, it's you," she observed.

"Have you got any capers, Kathleen?" Niamh inquired.

"Capers? What on earth d'you want those for?"

"I'm trying out a new recipe."

Kathleen sniffed. "Well, there might be some behind the vinegar there. Maria Feeney puts them in tomato sauce, of all things. Her parents were from Italy, you know." It sounded as though she thought this had shown very poor judgment on their part.

Niamh moved several malt vinegar bottles aside and peered behind them, triumphantly fishing out the single jar of capers. "Don't you like Italian food, then, Kathleen?" she asked curiously, carrying her purchase to the cash register.

The shop keeper wiped her hands on her apron and came to make the sale. "Oh, it's grand if you live in Italy, I'm sure," she answered. "As for myself, I've chosen to live in Ballykissangel, and I want a good cup of tea in the morning and a nice Irish stew at dinnertime. I don't need folks coming in from hither and yon trying to change things from the way they've worked perfectly well for years." She gave an ill-concealed glance in the direction of St. Joseph's.

"Like English priests, you mean?"

"I'll thank you not to put words in my mouth, Niamh Egan!" Kathleen took the bill Niamh handed her and made change from the drawer. "Though I doubt an Irish priest would walk away from his vows as easily as if he were breaking a dinner date."

Niamh hesitated, debating whether to point out the various flaws in Kathleen's reasoning or to escape the shop as quickly as possible, but the older woman went on before she could decide. "I'll tell you, Niamh, I never got used to hearing the Holy Scriptures read in that accent." She shuddered slightly, then brightened. "It was so lovely when that nice nephew of Father MacAnally's was here for Christmas. We can only pray we're sent someone like him this time."

The glimmer of an idea began in Niamh's mind. "Oh yes," she said nonchalantly, putting her change into the coin pocket of her purse. "Timmy, wasn't it? I wonder what he's doing now."

Kathleen's face lit up. "Why, he was just recently ordained. Don't you remember…well, no, you wouldn't…but Father MacAnally had to change the time of Mass one Saturday so he could travel to Dublin for the service. I wonder if he's been sent to a parish yet. Wouldn't it be wonderful if he could come back here?"

"Lovely. But I don't know if they'd do that with his uncle as the parish priest."

"Well I don't know why not. Who could be a better mentor for the boy than Father MacAnally? You know, I believe I'll mention it to him after Mass tomorrow!"

Niamh smiled sweetly at her. "It certainly would be nice to have someone who already knows the community. Well, thanks, Kathleen. I'll let you know how the recipe comes out." She managed to make it down the steps and out of sight of the shop's windows before laughing aloud.

---

Assumpta had slept like the dead, as her mother would have said, all afternoon. When Peter's soft knock woke her around 4:30, she opened her eyes gingerly, testing to make sure the hours of sleep had done the trick. She sat up in bed. "Come in," she called, and Peter did, pushing the door closed with his elbow.

Carrying a bottle and glass, he crossed to the nightstand. "I come bearing ginger ale," he announced, his cheerful voice masking worries he'd had too much time to dwell on while Assumpta slept.

"Ah, you are a saint," she responded, teasing, "I suspected it all along."

Peter tipped his head thoughtfully. "No," he said slowly, "I'm pretty sure that's several steps up from priest, not a step down." He poured some ginger ale into the glass and handed it to her. Then, with a flourish, he turned the switch on the bedside lamp, and a pool of soft light appeared around them. "Voila!"

Assumpta nearly choked on her drink. "The wiring's done!"

"The wiring's done _and_ the floors are done," Peter said, smiling at her excitement. "I don't know how you did it, but you slept through the whole thing. It's starting to look like Fitzgerald's down there again." He pulled up the chair from Assumpta's desk and sat down next to the bed. "Now all we need is the landlady back on her feet. How are you feeling?"

"Almost human. And like an absolute fool." She shook her head, recalling her behavior earlier in the day. "You may not be a saint, but you must have the patience of one if you're still here after the way I treated you this morning. And then this…" she waved her hand vaguely, indicating her current situation. "Apparently you've been treated to all my most winning characteristics in one day."

The corners of Peter's mouth twitched. "Yeah, if only I'd known you had such a temper!"

She swatted at him. "Stop it, you. I'm trying to apologize!"

His smile faded and he looked down at his hands. "Assumpta, you don't have to apologize…or explain, even. You didn't sign on for any of this." He took a deep breath. "If it's too much…"

She stared at him. "What are you on about?" she demanded. "Do you think I'm looking for an out?"

"I don't know. I hope not. Are you?"

"No!" She swung her legs over the side of the bed so that she sat facing him. "I want us to be together. I thought I was pretty clear about that in Manchester."

Peter nodded sheepishly. "Well, yeah, but then you kicked me out of the car in the middle of nowhere."

"I know. That was stupid." She touched his knee softly, and he looked up and met her eyes. "The thing is," she said quietly, "I'm horrible at waiting. Now that I've found out I can have you, I want you now. But that doesn't mean I _won't_ wait. I'm not going to be happy about it, and I probably won't do it gracefully, but I'll wait for you…as long as it takes."

A long, uneven breath escaped Peter's body. "You have no idea how glad I am to hear you say that." He caught Assumpta's hand and pressed her fingers to his lips, looking straight into her eyes with an expression part desire part fear that made tingles run along her skin. They sat frozen like that for a long moment, before Assumpta forced herself to break the spell.

"This is quite a compromising position we find ourselves in," she said lightly, glancing around the softly lit bedroom. "If Kathleen saw you come in, she'll be on the phone to the bishop in about two minutes." She gently pulled her hand away and stood up. "Anyway, I'm starving. Let's go see if we can find something to eat."

She led the way down the back stairs and into the kitchen. While she rummaged through the cupboards for a tin of soup, Peter put on the kettle. "I saw Padraig while I was unloading the van earlier," he told her. "Apparently the party's at his garage until you reopen here. Something about fire sale beer?"

"Oh, Ambrose will have a fit. That's always fun to watch," Assumpta grinned. "Bring your sense of adventure, though. I've seen that beer!"


	13. Moonlighting

O'Kelly's Garage was looking exceptionally clean, with every mobile vehicle cleared out and the floor thoroughly swept. A hodgepodge of folding tables and chairs was scattered throughout the room. Liam and Donal, who had arrived earlier than anyone else, had bypassed the chairs in favor of two piles of tires at the back of the garage where they now sat, leaning back against the wall and well into their first drinks. They raised their bottles in greeting as Niamh and Ambrose walked in.

"Hello, boys!" Niamh chose a seat and watched, shaking her head fondly, as her husband, clad in his gard's uniform, cast a sternly appraising eye around the room. Michael Ryan arrived and sat down next to her.

"What's going on?" the doctor asked.

Niamh rolled her eyes. "Oh, you know Ambrose. He's got to make sure Padraig's not causing the fabric of the community to unravel with his little makeshift pub here."

Padraig hoisted a crate of bottles down from a stack against the wall and carried it to the front of the room where Ambrose was standing. The bottles clinked musically as he set it down on the floor. "You've no cause for concern, Ambrose. I've come into possession of more beer than I can drink myself, so I've invited my friends to help me out, that's all."

"And I'm to believe you're not profiting in any way, am I?" the gard asked. The host shrugged his shoulders. "Believe what you like," he replied amiably. "Good company's the only profit I'm looking for."

Ambrose's eye settled on an empty jar on the table nearest the drinks. "What's this, then?" he demanded, with an air of triumph.

Padraig turned the jar so that Ambrose could see the hand-lettered label, which read _Peter Clifford Unemployment Fund_. "Free-will offering. If people want to toss in the cost of a pint, it'll go to soften the blow of going from being paid a pittance to not being paid at all."

Ambrose looked a bit deflated. He gave the older man a final hard stare. "Well," he said finally, settling his cap back on his head, "see that you keep the noise down."

"I'll do what I can," Padraig replied cheerfully, selecting three bottles from the crate. "Come back for a drink later, will you?"

"I might, at that." Ambrose's sudden grin made him look more like a twelve-year-old boy than an officer of the law as he walked back into the twilight to continue his patrol.

Padraig handed drinks to Niamh and Michael. "So Brian's babysitting tonight, is he?" he asked.

Niamh nodded. "Said he'd been working in a pub all day and he fancied an evening in. I left him and Kieran watching the news together." She put the bottle down on the table and wrinkled her nose at the soot on her fingers. "What on earth's in here, anyway?"

"No idea," Padraig grinned. "That's the fun of it. Give it here; I'll clean it off for you." He wiped the bottle with a rag and handed it back, asking mischievously, "You're not worried it'll corrupt the lad's world view to watch the news with your father?"

Niamh's eyes twinkled. "Not worried enough to give up an evening out."

"How're things coming along at Fitzgerald's?" Michael inquired. "Have they finished the wiring?"

Niamh nodded, taking an experimental sip of her drink. "Apparently the floors are done too, though I haven't seen them myself. Assumpta was sick in bed all afternoon. I don't know how she convinced my father to let her stay in the pub while they were working, but she did."

Michael raised an eyebrow. "She seems to be all right now," he observed, nodding toward the door.

"I like what you've done with the place," Assumpta called to Padraig. She waved to Niamh and Michael and headed to join them, but before she reached the table a bundle of red fur burst through the door and skidded to a stop in front of her, wriggling all over with excitement. "Easy there, Fionn," Assumpta laughed, kneeling to rub the dog's ears.

Kevin arrived in pursuit of the dog. "Sorry, Dad," he said. "I thought he was asleep there under the table, but he must have heard Assumpta. Just perked up his ears and took off."

"It's no problem." Padraig put his arm around his son's shoulders. It was going to be hard for the boy when Assumpta took the dog home, he knew.

Assumpta looked up, her arm around Fionn's neck, and smiled warmly. "Thanks for taking care of him for me, Kev."

Kevin's face turned nearly as red as Fionn's coat and he looked down and kicked at the floor with the toe of his shoe. "It's no big deal," he muttered.

Padraig patted his shoulder. "Go on back in and finish your school work, all right?"

The dog's eyes flickered back and forth between Assumpta's face and the retreating form of Kevin. He whined softly. "All right, go on," Assumpta told him. "I'll come and get you when I'm ready to go home." Fionn raced off after Kevin, nearly knocking him off his feet when he caught up to him. Assumpta shook her head, ruefully. "You're not kidding about him having forgotten whose dog he is," she said to Padraig. "I think we're going to have to work out some sort of joint custody arrangement."

A chorus of greetings heralded the arrival of Brendan and Siobhan. Niamh could scarcely wait until it died down before beckoning Siobhan off to the side. Brendan went to get himself a drink and Assumpta took a seat next to Michael.

"I hear you were under the weather earlier today," he said quietly.

Assumpta rolled her eyes. "There really is no privacy around here, is there?"

Michael smiled and shrugged. "Not much," he admitted. "One of your headaches, was it?"

Assumpta sighed. "Yeah. I slept it off."

"You know, there are other medications we can try…"

"Oh, the one you gave me works wonders," Assumpta assured him. "It's just that I ran out a couple of weeks ago and haven't had the prescription refilled."

"Ah." Michael nodded his understanding.

"I _have_ had a few things on my mind," Assumpta went on a bit defensively, "what with the fire and the repairs and…" she stopped talking abruptly and bit her lip.

"And…?" the doctor prompted.

"Well…that's about it, I suppose," Assumpta finished lamely.

"Mmmm." Michael studied her seriously, but Assumpta suspected a smile was lurking behind his professional façade. He leaned close. "You know, I picked up a passenger on my way back from visiting old Mrs. Durgin this morning. Had quite an interesting chat about how he came to be walking the Cilldargen road in the pouring rain"

Assumpta traced a line on the tabletop with her thumbnail, avoiding Michael's gaze. "Is that right?"

Movement beyond Assumpta's shoulder caught Michael's eye. "Ah! Here he is now. Hello, Peter!"

Assumpta let out an exasperated sigh and threw her hands in the air. "I give up!" she exclaimed. "It's pointless to try to keep a secret in this town!"

Padraig appeared at Peter's elbow. "What secret?" he inquired and then, without waiting for an answer, "Will you have a drink, Father?"

---

The evening wore on pleasantly. Various locals wandered into the garage, enjoyed a free drink and a chat, tossed a coin or two into the jar (which Padraig took care to keep hidden from Peter's view) and wandered out again, but the Fitzgerald's regulars all lingered, glad to be gathered in each other's company. By a quarter to ten everyone was clustered around one table, where Siobhan, Padraig and Liam were trying to teach Peter to play twenty-five. Donal had appointed himself as Peter's coach and sat at his elbow making suggestions that usually had the effect of confusing Peter while simultaneously revealing to the rest of the players exactly what cards he was holding. Ambrose had returned and was chatting with Brendan and Michael about recent incidences of graffiti at the youth center.

Niamh pulled her chair closer to Assumpta's. "So, I guess I'm losing my houseguest, then?"

Assumpta nodded. "The power's back on, thanks to your dad, so I'll let your household get back to normal. Thanks for putting up with me for so long."

"Don't be silly. We loved having you." Niamh gave Assumpta a sly glance out of the corner of her eye. "Will you be having any overnight guests of your own?"

"Niamh!" Assumpta's shocked exclamation drew curious glances from the others, and she finished under her breath, "No! And stop making trouble!"

"I'm only asking," Niamh replied innocently. "I should think, given the choice between staying with my father and staying at your place…"

"No one's been given that choice, as far as I know!"

Niamh was enjoying herself immensely. "You know," she went on, "I remember when I was thinking of moving in with Ambrose, Peter said to me…"

Assumpta clapped her hands over her ears. "I do not need to hear Peter's counsel on your love life, thank you very much!" she hissed. Niamh laughed aloud and all eyes turned back in their direction.

"All right, Assumpta?" Padraig inquired mildly.

"Fine, thanks, Padraig," Assumpta replied, glaring at Niamh, who was struggling to compose herself.

Padraig checked the clock on the back wall of the garage. "Better make sure young Kevin's gotten himself into bed. I'll be back in a minute." He placed his cards face down on the table and pushed back his chair. Peter put his cards down, too, and stretched, glad to have a respite from the game. He caught Assumpta's eye and smiled.

Donal helped himself to another drink and returned to his seat next to Peter. He took a sip and savored the beer as though he were at a tasting. "Budweiser, this one. Not bad." He tipped his head back thoughtfully. "Doesn't it seem strange to you that the Americans worked so hard to get rid of the King of England but now they have a 'king of beers'?"

"I can't say I've ever thought much about it," Peter replied.

"Don't feel bad, Peter," Brendan chimed in. "I've never heard the question come up in academic circles either."

Donal was on a roll. "I'll tell you what else I've been wondering." He paused for another sip of beer, and leaned forward earnestly. "Which was the last straw for you, Father…the poverty or the celibacy?"

There was a split second of utter silence followed by a roar of laughter and the sound of Peter choking on his lager. Siobhan pounded him on the back. When the noise died down slightly, Liam piped up, "Sure, you have plenty of experience with both of those yourself, Donal. What do you need to ask him for?" and the hilarity ensued again.

Assumpta leaned toward Niamh. "I think that's my cue to call it an evening," she said. "I hope Ambrose isn't called upon to keep the peace." Throwing her jacket around her shoulders and calling, "Goodnight!" to the group in general, she headed for home.

Padraig returned a moment later with Fionn was on his heels, grinning in anticipation. "What've I missed? Now I know how you feel, Assumpta, always missing the punch--" his sentence hung in the air as he looked around in confusion. "Where'd she go?"

"You just missed her," Brendan told him.

"Damn! She was supposed to take this brute along with her! Peter – grab his leash and go after her, will you? It's on the hook there beside the door."

Peter rose uncertainly. He looked around to Brendan, Siobhan, Niamh and Michael for guidance, but they all seemed to be either contemplating their drinks or eyeing Padriag quizzically. Finally he decided he couldn't very well refuse. Whistling for Fionn, he went out into the night.

The day's rain had gone, but the remnants of rainclouds drifted in front of the waning moon. The air was so still that Peter could hear the river babbling around the rocks near the bridge. Fionn sniffed the air excitedly and capered at the end of the leash. "Oh, I see. You want to run, do you?" Peter said. "All right, then, let's see what you've got!" They took off up the hill, urging each other along until they ran at a full sprint and overtaking Assumpta just as she reached her door.

Assumpta's fingers tightened reflexively on the doorknob at the sound of footsteps pounding behind her. Then Fionn broke away from Peter and wound himself around her legs, tail wagging frantically. Several seconds later, Peter jogged up and collapsed against the wall, panting for air and clutching his side. Assumpta looked from him to Fionn, who looked ready to dash off again at the first provocation. "I think he had you beat," she told Peter.

He grinned, still breathing hard. "Padraig sent me to bring him. Do you think he knows…about us?"

"With the number of times he called you 'Father' tonight?" Assumpta asked derisively. "Not likely."

Peter sobered. "Does that bother you?" Assumpta refused to meet his eyes, dismissing the question with a toss of her head. Peter tried to prepare himself for the onslaught of emotions he knew was coming as he caught her chin between his thumb and forefinger and turned her to face him. No use. It was like stepping into a cyclone anyway. He forced himself to focus on their conversation. "It's just force of habit," he told her gently. "They'll get over it sooner or later."

The tenderness in his voice made Assumpta feel as though she might fall over. "I know that," she replied, meeting his gaze at last and finding the same tenderness there, "the same way I know that patience is a virtue. It doesn't make it any easier." She folded her arms across her chest and sighed, looking up at the stars.

The faraway look in her eyes tugged at Peter's heart. He knew he was treading dangerously, but he had to ask. "Would you tell me about it sometime? Whatever it was that made you turn against the Church?"

To his surprise, she only sighed and lowered her gaze. "Sometime," she said in a subdued tone, and then with forced lightness, "but not tonight." She lifted her hand to his face, grazing the slight roughness of a day's growth of beard, and took a step towards him. Again Peter willed himself to relax; again the attraction between them was too intense. Assumpta sensed the tension in his body. "Peter? What's wrong?"

He shook his head, angry at himself for being such a child. "It's stupid."

Fionn barked softly as a light flickered on outside Kathleen's door. Assumpta dropped her hand self-consciously and restored the distance between them. "It can't be any worse than my behavior this morning," she said quietly. "Come inside and we can talk about it."

Conflicting emotions played across Peter's face. "I don't think I'd better."

"Walk with me, then. Fionn could use a stretch anyway."

They followed the sound of the water, turning onto a footpath just beyond the bridge. When the willow saplings and underbrush gave way to the Aingeal's pebbly shore, Assumpta let Fionn off his leash and he busied himself investigating all the scents of the riverbank. She sat down on a rock and waited.

Peter stood contemplating the spire of St. Joseph's which rose, illuminated by moonlight, above the village rooftops. "It's very _safe_, you know," he said at last, his voice tinged with bitterness. "Whatever else you can say about being a priest, it's safe. There's a whole range of emotions…feelings…you never have to deal with." He was thankful for the cloak of darkness, hopeful that it would at least partly hide his embarrassment. "But, now…with you…they're all back with a vengeance." He let out a desperate laugh. "It's ridiculous…and terrifying at the same time. It's like being thirteen all over again."

Assumpta didn't reply immediately. Peter glanced over his shoulder at her, afraid she might be angry, and saw her shoulders shaking. She quickly brought a hand to her face to hide the amusement there. "Are you laughing at me?" he demanded indignantly.

"I'm not," she protested. "Honestly. It's just…"

"You are too! I tell you of my pain, and you laugh!"

"It doesn't sound like pain, exactly," Assumpta struggled to control her mirth. She drew a deep breath and shook her head. "Oh, God, Peter. What a pair we are! It'll be a miracle if we get through all this!"

Peter's face relaxed into a slow smile. "Well, luckily, I believe in miracles."

"I do too, it may surprise you to learn." Assumpta got up and walked to his side, slipped her arm through his.

"That might be dangerous," Peter teased. "You know how thirteen-year-old boys are."

She bumped his arm with her shoulder. "Would you stop saying that? It makes me think of Kevin O'Kelley."

"Case in point."

Assumpta looked up at him. "What does that mean?"

"Oh come on," Peter grinned. "Even the handful of people in town that haven't figured out that I'm in love with you know that Kevin is."

"That's ridiculous!"

He shrugged. "Have it your way."

"He likes my dog…that's all."

Peter chuckled. "Assumpta, it may have been a while since I was actually thirteen, but I can remember it well enough to promise you that there's more to it than the dog."

Assumpta was quiet for a moment, considering. "Well, in that case, maybe I should keep my options open. Kevin's a good-looking kid…and very responsible."

Peter tightened his grip on her arm, pulling her closer to his side. "I'm responsible," he said. "At least until I get within twenty feet of you – then all bets are off."

Assumpta raised her eyebrows. "Oh, yeah? Then how come you haven't kissed me since Manchester?"

Peter nodded, looking at the ground. "Fair enough. Honestly, I'm afraid once I start in, I won't be able to stop. I told you it was stupid."

Assumpta pulled her arm away and turned so that they stood face to face. Her eyes flashed. "Well, you're right. That _is_ stupid." Peter looked up in surprise. "I know you're used to handling everything on your own, Peter…so am I, for that matter, but that won't work anymore. We're going to have to trust each other. Do you really think I'd just fall into bed with you after everything we've talked about? I'm not completely defenseless, you know! And besides that…"

Assumpta was just gathering steam, but the rest of her words were lost as Peter's mouth came down on hers. His hands were firm on her shoulders and after reeling for a moment she slipped her arms around his waist and held on for support. When he released her, she stared up at him, dazed, before dropping her head to his chest. Her voice was muffled in the cloth of his shirt. "I wasn't finished."

Peter grinned broadly. "I decided to concede the point," he told her. He suddenly felt as though he could race Fionn for miles…or keep kissing Assumpta until the sun came up. Instead he simply held her close as the river ran by and the moon continued its trip across the sky.


	14. Right Man for the Job

"Ah. Good morning, Father. Help yourself to some breakfast." Brian was just tucking a napkin over his immaculate white shirt as Peter came into the sunny kitchen. "You're up and at it early today."

"I thought I'd try to make it to morning mass," Peter replied. He took a mug down from the shelf and poured himself a cup of coffee.

Brian looked up from his plate. "Bit of a busman's holiday, eh?"

"More like getting right back on the horse." Peter felt slightly nauseous every time he thought about entering St. Joseph's as a parishioner for the first time, but he doubted whether delay was going make it any easier.

"I'm counting on you for practice tonight," Brian said. "We've got some work to do if we're going to beat Cilldargen next week."

This was the first Peter had heard of a match against Cilldargen. "I may not be here next week," he told Quigley. "In fact, I probably won't be. The diocese requires that I leave town to allow for a smoother transition for the new priest."

"Ridiculous." Brian waved his toast crust dismissively. "I'll have a word with Father Mac. I'm going to have some business associates at that match and I could use you in goal."

Peter frowned. "I don't think Father Mac's likely to put the outcome of a football match before diocesan policy, Brian. Anyway, you've got Ambrose in goal."

"Ha!" Brian completely ignored Peter's first objection and went straight to the second. "You've seen Ambrose play. Do you think I'd have him there if I had anyone better? Ambrose is completely respectable at midfield, but he's useless in goal."

Peter shook his head and fixed Brian with a stern stare. "No way. I'm not taking Ambrose's position."

Brian rolled his eyes. He removed the napkin from his collar and used it to wipe the corners of his mouth. Then he consulted his wristwatch. "Please yourself," he said. "I don't have time to argue with you now anyway. You can warm the bench if you like. It'll still wake the lads up a bit to have some fresh blood on the team." He carried his dishes to the sink, shrugged on his suit jacket and snatched up his briefcase. At the door he paused. "So we're agreed, then? I'll see you at the field?"

"I'll be there," Peter agreed warily. He raised his voice to call after Brian as he stepped out the door. "But I'm not taking Ambrose's position!"

The door clicked shut behind Brian before his last word was spoken.

---

Kathleen released the final chord of the hymn and moved quietly from the organ bench to the nearest pew. She took the opportunity to glance around the sanctuary, taking her daily count of the congregation. Discouragingly sparse, as usual. Of course, it was to be expected that weekday masses would be less well attended than Sunday's, but still… seven people scattered amongst the first five rows of pews left the church feeling completely empty. It further mystified her that, if anything, attendance had declined rather than increased since Father MacAnally took over for Father Clifford.

As she turned to take her seat she spotted someone sitting alone at the very back of the church. Kathleen could see only the top of his bowed head, and she did not recognize him immediately. She couldn't very well crane her neck around for a better look, so she puzzled about it all through mass, even as she struggled to keep her mind on what Father MacAnally was saying. When finally it was time for the closing hymn, she allowed herself another look. As she had suspected, it was Father Clifford. _Or whatever we're supposed to be calling him now,_ Kathleen muttered to herself, sniffing disdainfully.

By the time the benediction had been given and Kathleen had closed up the organ and reached the door where Father MacAnally was greeting the parishioners, the object of her consternation was disappearing down the street…in the direction of Fitzgeralds's, of course.

"You surprise me, Kathleen. Not happy to see a new face in the pews at morning mass?" She looked, Father Mac thought with a mix of amusement and annoyance, as though she'd bitten into a rotten apple.

"Hardly a _new_ face, is it?" replied the shopkeeper pointedly.

Father Mac sighed. He found he was rapidly losing patience with the whole situation. "He hasn't been excommunicated, you know, Kathleen. He is a child of God and a Catholic in good standing. He is welcome in St. Joseph's -- or any other church, for that matter."

Kathleen managed to look both wounded and reproachful at once. "Yes, Father."

Father Mac sighed again. "Was there something you wanted to talk to me about, Kathleen?"

"Why, yes there was." She brightened. "I wanted to ask what young Timmy is doing these days. Has he received a parish yet?"

"Not on full-time basis, no," Father Mac replied. "He's been doing some hospital work in Dublin in the meantime. It's thoughtful of you to ask after him."

Kathleen leaned towards him eagerly. "I was just thinking, Father, how well he got on when he was here at Christmastime. Wouldn't it be lovely if he could come back to us?"

In truth, the same thought had been flitting around in Father Mac's own head over the last few days. He thought his nephew might be an excellent fit in Ballykissangel and the idea of being able to guide and mentor him was certainly appealing. On the other hand, he didn't want to give the impression of favoritism. He spread his hands, showing that the matter was out of his control. "You and I may think so, Kathleen, but the Bishop will send us the man he feels is best suited to the church. Surely it's not my place to be custom ordering curates."

"Certainly not," Kathleen agreed quickly. "Still, His Grace would surely value your opinion. After all, who knows the needs of the local church better than the parish priest?"

Father Mac smiled benevolently at her. "Thank you, Kathleen. I wish everyone shared your confidence." He considered for a moment. "I suppose I might mention it to His Grace when I speak to him this afternoon. May I may tell him it was you who brought it to my attention?"

"Why, of course, if you think it will help," Kathleen cast her eyes down demurely, secretly delighted with the prospect of her idea being the subject of discussion between the parish priest and the Bishop.

"Good." Father Mac patted her shoulder. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I've another mass to say and barely enough time to get there."

He mulled over the conversation as he prepared for the drive back to Cilldargen. Timmy had indeed been very well received during his short stay in Ballykissangel. And the part he had played in rescuing the O'Kelly boy had earned him near-hero status. His appointment to St. Joseph's would likely make it unnecessary for Peter Clifford to leave town. If this suggestion had come from any other parishioner he might have questioned their motives, but Kathleen had no affinity for Peter, and that was putting it mildly. Father Mac chuckled to think of the long litany of complaints she had managed to raise against the young Englishman over three short years. No, Kathleen's motives were unassailable. As he walked to his car, Father Mac paused for a last look up at St. Joseph's. He nodded to himself. What better place for Timmy to begin his ministry?

---

The clang of the mail slot closing behind the afternoon post startled Mary out of another unintended nap. She'd been feeling unusually tired these last few days – not entirely surprising given all the excitement last week, but a little worrisome, nonetheless. And she was lonely. She remembered feeling this way in the months following Rob's death, alone in the house after all those years of sharing it. But she had kept busy with her garden, her church activities, her friends and family and in time she had gotten used to living alone. She was not completely happy, but not really unhappy either.

What she missed most was that sense of living a life truly connected to other people, and having Peter and Assumpta in the house had reminded her what that was like. Peter's previous visits home from Ireland had been marked by a certain reserve, a holding back that Mary had attributed to his vocation. Surely all priests were like that, even with their own mothers. Now she wondered how much of that reserve had been born of a fear of revealing too much and disappointing her with the uncertainty he was feeling in his vocation. The joy of this most recent visit was that it had been not with Father Clifford, but with her son Peter. Genuine, human, imperfect Peter. Regaining that connection and then losing it again so soon left her feeling bereft.

_Enough of this!_ Mary scolded herself. She pushed herself up out of her chair, got her balance and went to collect her mail, her legs throbbing in protest as she stooped to pick up the small pile from the mat. The clouds that had been threatening rain when she walked to mass earlier in the day were now producing it in torrents, and the ink on the postcard that topped the pile had begun to smudge. Carrying the mail into kitchen, she blotted the postcard with a tea towel, puzzling over the unfamiliar handwriting.

After a brief search for her glasses, Mary sat down at the table to examine the card properly. Too curious to wait, she read the signature first: _Love, Assumpta_. A smile came to her face, and she went back to read the rest of the message. _The one with no steeple is mine – though it's looking a bit sootier than this right now. The invitation stands – come and see 'heaven on earth' for yourself!_

Trust a woman to know she'd want to see what the town where her son had been living looked like, Mary thought, turning the card over to examine the pictures. Peter was good about telephone calls and always sent cards for important events, but in three years she hadn't seen a single picture of Ballykissangel. And it was lovely – green hills descending steeply on both sides of a narrow, sparkling blue lake, sheep grazing among craggy rocks, the beautiful old gray stone church with its steeple reaching for the heavens. Mary peered closely at the center photograph which showed a trim yellow and blue building situated along a village street. Sure enough, she could just make out the name on the sign: Fitzgerald's.

How sweet of Assumpta to invite her, and how she would love to accept. Not right away, of course, but after a bit of the furor over Peter's announcement had had a chance to die down. Five years ago she wouldn't have thought twice, but now, especially the way she'd been feeling the last few days…well, she had to admit that her traveling days were probably behind her. Mary would have to settle for the next best thing: telling the story. Tomorrow after mass, she decided, she would go and visit her best friend, Cecilia.

---

Siobhan pulled her truck to a stop behind Assumpta's van and set the brake. It was only twenty past eleven, a little early for lunch, but she'd had enough for one morning. She pushed open the pub door and paused on the threshold, trying to decide whether she could stomach the smell of fresh paint. _It's either that or find my own lunch_, she thought grimly and stepped the rest of the way inside.

Padraig and Peter were perched on ladders at opposite ends of the room, applying paint and discussing the prognosis of Peter's car. "A new battery'd probably do the trick," Padraig was saying. "Matter of fact. I think I've got one we can try when we're done here." He caught sight of Siobhan and began to descend his ladder. "How 'ya, Siobhan? Here, I'll get a stool for you."

"Get on back up there," Siobhan snapped. "I'm pregnant, for God's sake, not terminally ill."

"Right you are." Padraig held up his hands and grinned. "Deadly things, hormones," he said to Peter. "Didn't take me long to learn to keep out of Fionnula's way when she was expecting Kevin."

"Like that woman ever needed an excuse to be unpleasant," Siobhan pulled a stool up to the bar and sat down.

"Siobhan!" Peter's voice held a note of warning. He paused with his brush in mid-stroke and watched the grin disappear from Padraig's face.

"Thought you'd given up preaching," Siobhan grouched at him, but she relented. "Sorry, Padraig. I was out of line."

"Didn't keep you from being right, though," Padraig replied wryly.

Assumpta came through the kitchen door, marking something off on a clipboard. "I thought I heard you, Siobhan. Can I get you something?"

"What do you have in the way of lunch?"

"I can give you a sandwich and some crisps," the publican replied apologetically, "but that's about it. I won't be back to a full menu till after the grand re-opening, and that's if I survive it." She tossed the clipboard on the bar and stuck her pencil in her ponytail, sighing.

"A sandwich is fine," said Siobhan, "and an orange juice to go with it, I suppose. Wouldn't want the pregnancy police to come in and find me behaving badly."

Assumpta glanced at her as she reached beneath the bar for a glass, freshly washed and put in its place just an hour before. "Aren't _you_ a ray of sunshine this morning!"

"Yeah," Siobhan sighed. "Sorry. It's just every time I turn around somebody's telling me something else I can't do. How do they think I've managed this far?"

Assumpta smiled. "Pretty well, probably. Who are we talking about here?"

"Whoever it is that writes all these blasted pregnancy books, for starters. Don't eat this, don't drink that, don't stay up late, don't cross your legs, stay away from sheep…it's a wonder any babies were born at all before they were around to share their wisdom."

"All the studies show there's a lot more healthy births nowadays, though," Padraig chimed in.

"Hush, Padraig!" Assumpta stared daggers at him.

"What? I'm only sayin'…" he looked to Peter for support, but Peter shook his head. Padraig heaved an exaggerated sigh and went back to his painting.

Assumpta turned back to Siobhan. "Is that it?"

"Well, no. Then there's Michael. And Brendan."

"Ah."

"They ganged up on me just because my blood pressure was a little high yesterday and insisted if I was going to keep up my work schedule I'd have to hire an assistant."

"You took Brendan along to see Michael?" A look of pleased surprise had come over Assumpta's face.

"Yeah, well. It seemed like the thing to do at the time."

"Oh, Siobhan. I'm so glad. And he must have been thrilled."

This was not at all the direction Siobhan had wanted the conversation to go. She felt as though the wind had been taken out of her sails. "Well, I hope he enjoyed it," she said petulantly. "It's not likely to happen again soon if he's going to be such a nuisance."

"Come on, Siobhan. He's trying to help the best he knows how." Assumpta set the orange juice and a packet of crisps in front of her friend. "So, are you going to hire an assistant?"

"I've already hired one. From that agency in Cilldargen."

"So? Where is he?"

"Quit."

"Already?! What did you do to him?" Assumpta put a hand to her mouth in an attempt to hide her amusement. She noticed that Peter and Padraig had abandoned their painting and turned on their ladders in order to hear the story better.

"I didn't _do_ anything to him! Apparently it never crossed his mind that veterinary work might not be all fluffy kittens and frolicking puppies. We took one step inside Eamonn's barnyard and he began to get a funny look on his face and by the time I asked him to clean the prize sow's infected teat he ran outside and lost his breakfast all over his shiny new boots."

A snort from Padraig was all it took for both Assumpta and Peter to lose their composure completely. All three dissolved in gales of laughter and, after looking around at them indignantly for a moment, Siobhan joined in. Wiping tears of mirth from her eyes several minutes later, she said, "So, if you hear of anyone who's looking for a job – and has a strong stomach…"

Peter looked thoughtful. "I might know of someone." He laid down his brush and came to lean against the bar, wiping his hands on a rag.

Siobhan raised an eyebrow at him. "Still have the ear of the people, even without the collar, eh, Peter?"

"Actually, I was thinking of myself."

"What?!" Assumpta sputtered, "I thought you were working here!"

"And I am," Peter assured her, "but there's not that much left to do." He lowered her voice to a stage whisper. "Besides," he gestured toward Siobhan, "I think hers is a paying job!"

"I gave you a cup of coffee not an hour ago," Assumpta exclaimed indignantly. "What payment do you want, exactly?"

"Don't answer that, for heaven's sake!" Siobhan exclaimed. Both Peter and Assumpta turned bright red, and Padraig looked mystified. Siobhan regarded Peter doubtfully. "Do you have any experience with animals at all?"

"Well…I had a pet hamster when I was nine. And then there was my turkey, until he deserted me to go back and live with Eamonn."

"And his last employer was a good shepherd, I hear," Padraig added. He ducked, laughing, to avoid the bar rag Assumpta threw at him. "All right, I can see this is a conversation that doesn't require my presence. I'll just go and see about that battery, shall I?"

Siobhan shook her head as the door closed behind Padraig. "You're going to have to tell him what's going on before he's the only one in town left in the dark."

Peter and Assumpta shared a look. Peter nodded. "You're right. I'll have a word with him. But, to get back to the matter at hand – what do you say, Siobhan?"

"You know yourself he has a way with sheep," Assumpta commented mischievously.

"If I've told you once, I've told you a hundred times…that was a ram!" Siobhan snapped. Then she saw that she was being teased. "Are you going to bring me my sandwich or what?"

"All right, all right." Assumpta turned for the kitchen, tossing a smile in Peter's direction. "I'll let the two of you work this out."

As she went through the door, Peter was musing, "Of course, I might be away for awhile after this week. Maybe you want someone more reliable."

"You're already more reliable than the last fellow," Siobhan answered. "I think we can cross that bridge when we come to it – _if_ we come to it."


	15. The Path to Your Door

Ellie pushed her front door closed and leaned against it, breathing in the silence of the house. Two hours of blessed solitude lay ahead before it would be time to retrieve Ben and Sophie from their respective classes at nursery school. Pushing four toy train cars out of the way with the side of her foot, she carried her market bag into the kitchen and stowed the milk and vegetables in the refrigerator.

She slid a CD into the player and turned it up a notch louder than she would have if the children had been at home, poured herself a cup of coffee and sat down with pen and paper to make a list. Something about having a list always made Ellie feel more organized and productive, regardless of how many items she actually accomplished.

She had yet to put pen to paper when the telephone rang. "Oh, go away," Ellie said aloud. She scowled at the phone, sorely tempted to just let it ring. But what if something there was an emergency at school and she missed the call because she was more concerned with finishing her coffee in peace? Wouldn't exactly qualify her for mother-of-the year.

She sighed, turned down the music and answered just before the fourth ring.

"Hello?"

"Ellie?"

"Mary?" Ellie frowned. She talked to her mother-in-law on the phone nearly every day, but always after lunch, when the children were supposed to be resting. And Mary's voice sounded odd – faint, maybe, or anxious. Maybe the connection was bad. "Is everything all right?"

"Oh, yes. Fine." The response came just a shade too quickly to be convincing. "I hate to bother you, but I'm here visiting with Cecilia and I think I'm a little too tired to walk home. Could I trouble you for a ride?"

_Too tired…?_ The Mary who walked every day to and from church, shopping, visiting? Ellie frequently remarked, only half-joking, that Mary was probably in better shape than she was. Alarm tightened her chest, making it difficult to keep her voice calm and casual. "Of course you can! It's no bother at all. Just let me jot down Cecilia's address..." Clamping the receiver in place with her shoulder, she grabbed the paper and pen that had been meant for her list and scribbled down the address Mary gave her. "Right. You just sit still and I'll be there in ten minutes."

Ellie was not a patient driver on her best day. Today she seemed to hit every red light on the four-mile route between her house and Cecilia's apartment, and she cursed them all. Finally she turned into Cecilia's street and pulled up in front of a trim grey and white building set back slightly from the street. Pansies bloomed cheerfully in pots on either side of the door. Ellie hurried up the walk and rang the bell to announce her presence, but opened the door without waiting for an answer. "Hello?" she called.

She followed Cecilia's answering call through to a cozy sitting room. Ellie recognized the furniture as having come from the house next door to Mary's where Cecilia had lived until about three years ago when a series of falls had made it necessary for her to move to a place with no stairs. The day the van came to move Cecilia's belongings from her house to the apartment her children had found for her, Ellie had taken Ben and baby Sophie and gone to keep Mary company. She had been changing Sophie's nappy when they heard the final clang of the van's door shutting and the revving of the engine as it pulled away from the curb. Ellie had looked up from the baby to see tears rolling down Mary's cheeks. It was the only time, other than at Rob's funeral, when she had seen her mother-in-law cry.

Now Mary and Cecilia sat facing each other in the same chairs where they had worked out so many of the little heartaches of child-rearing and marriage and aging and, unless Ellie missed her guess, where they had just hashed over the story of Peter's unexpected visit. The tea table between them held the remains of their tea, except for one Wedgewood cup which lay in shards on the floor.

Ellie's sharp eyes took all of this in, then met Mary's questioningly. "I can't be trusted with the good china, apparently," Mary said, in an attempt at humor that failed to hide the embarrassment and tension in her voice. One of her hands lay in her lap, but the other gripped the arm of the chair as though she feared it might fly out from under her.

"What happened?" Ellie asked.

"I felt a little dizzy when I got up to clear the tea things," Mary told her. "I guess I must have forgotten I was holding that cup, because I reached back for the chair and dropped it on the floor. I feel just awful – that's Cecilia's wedding china, you know."

"Stop worrying about the silly cup, for heaven's sake!" Cecilia admonished her. She turned to Ellie. "She would have passed right out on the floor if the chair hadn't happened to be behind her. And she hasn't been feeling well for days."

"You haven't?" Ellie looked at Mary in alarm. "Why didn't you tell us?"

"I've just been a little tired is all," answered Mary. "Stop fussing, Cece."

"Hmpf." Cecilia sent Ellie a look that said she wasn't buying Mary's explanation and she didn't think Ellie should either.

"Well." Ellie adopted the bright, no-nonsense tone she used when her children were bickering. "Let me just clean up these things and then we'll get you home." Following Cecilia's directions, she fetched a broom and dustpan, swept up the shards of china and deposited them in the dustbin. Then she gathered up the rest of the tea things and carried them into the kitchen.

When she returned, Mary had started to get up from her chair. Resisting the urge to race over and grab hold of her, Ellie watched from a distance that she hoped was far enough away to preserve Mary's dignity and also close enough to catch her if she should start to fall again. But whatever had caused the dizziness earlier seemed to have passed. Mary stepped over to Cecilia's chair and took her friend's outstretched hand. "Don't you go worrying about me, now. I'll be just fine, and I'll ring you tonight."

When they were in the car, pulling away from the curve, Mary sighed. "Poor Cecilia. As if she doesn't have enough to worry about without me collapsing in her sitting room."

Ellie nodded sympathetically. Then she sent Mary and knowing sideways glance. "I'll bet she loved your story, though."

Mary's face relaxed into a smile, remembering. "Oh, she did. Do you know what she said?"

"What?" Ellie asked.

"She said it sounded like the most sensible thing Peter had done in years."

Ellie laughed. "That sounds like Cecilia!"

They passed the rest of the trip in silence. Ellie drove with extra care, as if shielding Mary from bumps and sharp curves could also protect her from whatever else might be wrong. When she stopped the car in front of Mary's house, Mary waited for her to come around and open the passenger door. She was touched to notice how, on the way up the walk to the front door, Ellie stayed close enough to her to be reassuring but did not attempt to take her arm. Among her sons' many fine qualities, she thought, they had good taste in women. Inside, she sank with relief into the familiar embrace of her wing chair and gave Ellie a half-smile.

"I can't tell you how foolish I feel."

"Don't," Ellie replied. "Just tell me what I can do to help."

"I don't suppose I can convince you not to tell my son about this," Mary said hopefully.

Ellie shook her head. "Sorry," she said. "I don't think that would be healthy for my marriage. But if I can tell him when you're seeing the doctor I might be able to keep him from rushing right over here. Do you want to call, or shall I?"

Mary opened her mouth, planning to say that she would call, although she was sure a doctor's visit wasn't necessary, but instead she heard her own voice saying, "Would you mind, dear? I don't think I have the energy." She closed her eyes and leaned her head against the chair back, listening to Ellie's matter-of-fact voice arranging for her to see the doctor and feeling bits of her independence slipping away forever.

* * *

Brian's business meeting had gone remarkably well, and he was whistling as he hurried into his Land Rover and drove across town to St. Columelle's. If the morning's good luck continued, he might happen upon Father Mac leaving the hospital after making his rounds. It did. Brian maneuvered into a parking space and, by race-walking the final half-block, managed to catch up to the parish priest just as he put the key into the lock of his black sedan. "Father Mac! Just the man!" Brian exclaimed heartily.

"Hello, Brian." Father Mac's response was less than enthusiastic. He'd been looking forward to a quick nap before it was time for his call from the Bishop, but he could see from the look on Quigley's face that he had other plans. And, in a parish whose books were seldom in the black, it was always wise to make time for the concerns of the larger contributors.

Brian clapped him on the shoulder. "You look tired Father. They're working you too hard, for sure. Let me buy you a drink."

"It's a bit early for that yet, I'm afraid."

Brian glanced at his wrist watch. "Only by a few minutes. Make it a coffee, if you prefer. Wake you up a bit, eh?" He shepherded a resigned Father Mac along the sidewalk to the pub below the hospital, found a table near the window, and called to young man behind the bar, who brought them coffee and a pitcher of whiskey for its improvement. Brian settled himself in his chair, loosened his tie and rolled up his sleeves. "Ah, that's better." He leaned back comfortably. "So, Father, how goes the battle?"

Father Mac massaged his forehead wearily. "I've got to tell you, Brian; it's not as easy as it looks running two churches plus handling parish business and the transition to a new curate. I'm feeling my age this week."

"No one could do it any better." Quigley poured a generous portion of whiskey into his own coffee and offered the pitcher to the priest who hesitated only a moment before motioning for him to pour. "Still, I'm sure it'll be a relief once a new fellow comes on to share the burden at St. Joseph's."

He took a sip of coffee and nodded appreciatively before turning the conversation toward the topic he'd come to discuss. "I don't know if you heard, but I've invited Peter to stay with me while he gets his feet under him."

Father Mac placed his cup in its saucer. "Yes, Ambrose mentioned that when I saw him yesterday. It's more than generous of you, I'm sure."

Brian waved his hand dismissively. "It's little enough. Peter was telling me over breakfast this morning that he's required to leave town after this week."

The parish priest's eagle eyes narrowed. "Oh, and he sent you to plead his case, is that it?"

"No, actually he advised me against it. I am going to plead his case, mind you, but it's my own interests I'm hoping to advance."

"Oh? What interests are those?"

Quigley pushed his coffee cup to one side and leaned forward, arms resting on the table. "I'm sure I don't have to tell you, Father, that my business isn't what it was a couple of years ago. I need to move forward with this development in order to pay the bills, but it's been delay after delay. This latest one over Killnashee cost me a sure-thing investor."

Father Mac frowned. "I thought there was a Korean firm that was interested in the project,"

"So did I," Brian responded darkly, "but apparently their interests have turned elsewhere." He'd come very close to being made a complete laughingstock over this business with the Koreans, but he was determined not to let that discourage him. If anything, he was more determined that ever to see the project through to a successful completion and see who was laughing then. "Anyway," he continued, "all the uproar over where the road should be built may have brought me a new investor. I've just met with the owner of one of these eco-tourism outfits out of England and he's interested in the site."

Father Mac gaped at him. "You can't be serious, Brian! Eco-tourism? In Ballykissangel?"

Brian chuckled. "I know. I thought the same thing. But apparently they're trying to develop some new destinations for folks who can't spring for Kenya or Costa Rica. We've got the endangered wildlife and the landscape and the local culture and the economy that needs bolstering – all things they're looking for."

"Local culture?"

"Ah. You see, that's where our man Peter comes in. This fellow Harris is sending a group back to evaluate the site next week – a couple of people from his company and some environmental types from the government and private sector. All from the Manchester area. And they're coming on Wednesday." He gave Father Mac a meaningful look.

"The day of the match between your team and Cilldargen." The priest was glad he had consulted his calendar that morning.

"Exactly!" Brian thumped the table delightedly, drawing glances from the pub's few other customers. "What better example of local culture than an Irish football match between rival town teams? The thing is, I'll be busy coaching, so I can't be explaining it to them, and all the other locals will be busy cursing out the opposing team."

Father Mac finally grasped where this was going. "So you want Peter to play host."

"Why not? They're from his old stomping grounds, so they'll already have something in common. He can explain the game, answer any questions they have about the area, and then I'll put him out on the field and they'll see how he's been welcomed into the community." He grinned, clearly delighted with his own ingenuity. "It could seal the deal."

Father Mac was genuinely sorry to dampen his boyish enthusiasm, but he couldn't in good faith make any promises. "I'm sorry, Brian," he said. "It's not my decision whether Peter stays or goes. It's the policy of the diocese."

Brian narrowed his eyes and smiled slyly at the priest. "Ah, but you know and I know, Father: there are always exceptions to rules."

Father Mac shook his head. "Brian, Brian," he said. "It's that kind of thinking that gets us into trouble. Do you recall any exceptions to the Ten Commandments? I'm afraid unless we miraculously come up with someone local to take over St. Joseph's that Peter will have to go." He looked at his watch and took a last sip of coffee. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to get back to the office to take a call from the Bishop."

Brian rose and extended his hand. "I'm grateful for your time, Father. Just promise me you'll keep it in mind? This deal could mean a lot to the town…and to the Church."

Father Mac chuckled. Of course Brian wouldn't take no for an answer. "You've made your point, Brian. I don't know that I'm in a position to help you here, but I promise I'll remember what you've said."

Quigley spread his hands expansively. "That's all I ask," he said.

* * *

Assumpta smoothed the toile fabric she had purchased for curtains across one of the larger pub tables, measured and cut. Niamh had promised to come the next morning to help her with the sewing, and she wanted to have the pieces all ready to go. Since her mother's death had left her responsible for the day-to-day running of Fitzgerald's, she had been far too busy trying to keep her head above water to worry about redecorating. This fire, bad as it had been, was giving her the opportunity to put touches of herself into the place where she spent so much time.

Draping a length of fabric carefully across the back of a chair, Assumpta paused to glance with satisfaction around her pub, proud of the way it was coming together. Just now the late-afternoon sun came through the bare windows, glowing warm on the creamy yellow walls Padraig and Peter had finished painting earlier in the day. Assumpta herself had polished the brass along the bar and it gleamed as if lit from within. Ample supplies of her customers' favorite beverages had been delivered and stored behind the bar and the dishes and barware were all washed and ready to be filled. Running through the menu for the grand-reopening in her mind, Assumpta could easily imagine the room filled with talk and laughter, the clink of glasses and plates, music. A little thrill of excitement went through her body as she thought of sharing the evening with Peter, catching his eye across the room the same as always, but without that torturous uncertainty. Knowing it might be possible, after all, for them to have some future together.

Her reverie was interrupted by a shadow in the doorway. She looked up, expecting Brendan, but found Kevin there instead. She threw him a bright smile. "Hey, Kev. How was school?"

"All right," he shrugged. "I came to see if you want me to take Fionn out for you."

_Ha!_ Assumpta thought. _Show's what you know, Peter!_. "Ah, thanks Kevin, that'd be great," she replied aloud. "Don't let him pull your arm off. He's been shut up in here all day with me, so he'll be raring to go." She nodded toward the kitchen. "Go on back. He'll be thrilled to see you."

Kevin dropped his school bag under a table and headed for the kitchen. When he came back through, it was at a great rate of speed, grinning from ear to ear, with Fionn barking and jumping excitedly on his leash. Assumpta tried not to cringe at the scrabbling of nails on her newly polished floors. "Have fun!" she called after them.

More jubilant barking cascaded back through the door, followed by a woman's shriek and Kevin's, "Down, Fionn!"

"Kevin O'Kelley, you keep that animal under control!" Assumpta rolled her eyes_. Of course it would be Kathleen._ Dropping her scissors, she went to the door to see if her help was required. All she saw was an indignant-looking Kathleen glaring after Kevin and Fionn, who were rapidly disappearing down the street. Brendan stood watching in amusement.

"Sorry, Miss Hendley," Kevin called back, but his voice was nearly lost in the breeze.

"All right, Kathleen?" Brendan asked mildly.

"Mind your own business!" snapped Kathleen. She cast a withering stare at both Brendan and Assumpta, and continued on her way, heels clicking on the pavement.

Stifling a laugh, Assumpta stood aside and motioned the grinning Brendan into the bar where he sank into a chair and stretched his long legs out in front of him. "I don't suppose you have the taps working yet," he inquired hopefully.

Assumpta shook her head. "Sorry. Not 'til Friday. You'll have to drink bottled."

A touch morosely, Brendan examined the bottle of Guinness she handed him. "Ah, well. It's better than nothing… just barely." He took a long drink, looked around the pub. "So, where's your partner in crime?"

"Oh," Assumpta chuckled. "You'll love this. He's working for Siobhan."

Brendan's eyebrows shot up. "Are you serious?"

"Uh huh. They worked it all out at lunchtime and he's gone out on a couple of calls with her to see how it goes."

Brendan shook his head. "God bless him. I hope he survives."

"He's used to having Father Mac for a boss. I'm sure he'll be fine." Assumpta turned back to her fabric and measured the next panel. "Can I ask you something?"

"Of course."

"Peter says Kevin has a crush on me. I told him he was being daft. What do you think?"

Brendan didn't even stop to think about it. "Well, of course he has a crush on you. You're prime adolescent crush material."

"What does that mean?"

"Well," Brendan continued, gesturing in the air with his stout bottle, "You're beautiful. You're just a little bit dangerous…"

Assumpta blushed and made a gagging sound.

"You're also ridiculously old and completely unattainable."

"What?" She stood bolt upright and pointed her scissors at Brendan. "You watch yourself, Brendan Kearney. I'm not as old as you are!"

Brendan shielded his face with his hands in mock fear. "From Kevin's perspective, I'm saying. I think you may have missed your chance with him anyway, though."

She gave him a quizzical look. "Oh yeah?"

"There's a new family just in from Dublin and I assigned Kevin to work with the girl on a history project. He seems to have developed a sudden intense interest in Ancient Greece."

"Mighty Aphrodite strikes again."

"I wouldn't be surprised."

"What's the girl like?"

Brendan shrugged. "She's called Hannah. She's a twelve year old girl, which means lots of hair tossing and eye rolling. Beyond that she seems nice enough. She gets her school work done, which is more than I could say for some of them. The older brother, though…" he shook his head. "Word from the secondary school is he's not adjusting so well."

"Troublemaker?"

He took a sip of his stout, considering. "I don't know if I'd say that. He apparently likes to talk big about all the stuff he used to do back in Dublin and he's getting some good kids to make poor choices. I'd say he's just a city mouse trying to find his place in the country."

Assumpta grinned at him. "That's our Mr. Kearney. Always with a soft spot for troublemakers and lost causes."

He shrugged sheepishly. "Worked out all right with you." He watched her measure and cut another panel, bothered again by the question he'd thus far been too cowardly to ask. This was probably as good an opportunity as he was likely to get. "Speaking of city mice…" he began.

"Leave it alone, Brendan." There was a note of warning in her voice.

"You're not surprised he hasn't shown up here yet?"

"I said leave it alone!"

"You have talked to him, haven't you?"

She slammed her scissors down on the table and spun to face him. "Yes, I've talked to him. I rang him while I was waiting for my flight back from London. What, did you think I'd just string him along?"

"No." Brendan drained the last of his stout, set the bottle at his feet. "But I wouldn't have thought he'd go down without a fight, either. Did you?"

Assumpta's answer was in her silence.

* * *

The little sports car's tires sang on the damp road surface as if they were glad to be out on the open road after a month and a half shut away in the garage. The miles were going by more quickly than they ought to, but he wasn't complaining; the sooner he got there, the better. Shouldn't have waited this long.

The night was really not warm enough to have put the top down, but he wasn't complaining about the chill wind on his face either. It kept the weariness of a full day's travel at bay and gave him something to focus on other than his own stupidity. He'd noticed over the past week how ordinary minor physical pains – cutting himself shaving, stubbing his toe while he was wandering about the apartment in the dark – provided a welcome distraction from his real pain, which was neither ordinary nor minor. It nearly knocked him flat every time he thought that maybe he'd really lost her this time.

The past rejections never really seemed like the last word; he'd been able to hang on to that cocky, casual assumption that, eventually, they'd end up together. They shone too brightly, individually and especially together, for their lives as they were. They'd leave it all behind and fly off to New York, just like they'd planned all those years ago wrapped up together in a blanket on the roof of his dormitory next to an empty bottle of wine. He'd write for the _Times _or the _Journal_; she'd audition and get some small parts – off-Broadway, probably, to start. There would be no stopping them.

It could still happen.

The car hugged another hairpin turn and crested the hill. Below, through the trees, he could see silvery bits of the lake gleaming with moonlight. He urged the car on ever faster.

Not long now.


	16. Rally Round

_Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!_

"_What do you want?"_

"_I want to borrow your van."_

"_My van? What for?"_

"_I have to get over the mountain. There's an emergency."_

"_Let somebody else handle it - you're not the priest anymore!"_

"_There isn't anyone else who can do it. Assumpta, please!"_

"_No. This is ridiculous!. I'm going back to sleep."_

_Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! _Assumpta's brain fought its way up through layers of dream and sleep to register the very real, very loud pounding on her front door. She sat up, disoriented, her heart racing. There it was again. Throwing back the covers, she went to the window, squinted out into the darkness. Whoever was doing the pounding was standing too close to the building to be seen from the window above. The car parked in front of the pub, however, was plainly visible, and immediately recognizable.

_Damn! Damn Brendan and his questions! _ Assumpta grabbed her dressing gown and wrapped it tightly around her, knotting the sash as she ran down the stairs. A new bout of pounding began just as she slid the bolt back and threw the door open. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"I want to talk to you." Leo moved as though to enter the pub, but Assumpta stood planted in the doorway.

"And it couldn't wait until morning? Or do you want to wake the whole town as well?"

His face was all angles and shadows except for his eyes, which flashed in the darkness, darting past Assumpta toward the stairs. "Is he here?" His voice was tight, quiet.

"Who?"

"Don't mock me Assumpta. You know very well who!"

"Peter? No, Leo, he's not here. And you shouldn't be either." She crossed her arms to stop their shaking and stood firm in the doorway.

"Why?"

"_Why?_ For a thousand reasons. Because it's two o'clock in the morning, for starters. Because the pub's not open. Because I'm a single woman in a town full of people who think privacy is highly overrated. Shall I go on?"

"No!" Leo shouted, striking the doorjamb with his fist. Assumpta jumped, feeling as if she herself had been hit. "I didn't mean why shouldn't _I_ be here. I meant why isn't _he_ here?" He shook his head, and she could see the tears in his eyes. "Christ, Assumpta, if you'd ever given me the slightest bit of encouragement, I'd never have left your side!"

She took an involuntary half-step back, her bravado faltering. Brendan had been right, of course. She should have known Leo wouldn't go down without a fight. Why hadn't she prepared herself for this conversation?

Leo went on. "Where did I go wrong, Assumpta? I've tried not to push, to give you your space. And look where it's got me! Groveling on your doorstep in the middle of the night like a damn fool, thrown over for a _priest_!"

"Stop it, Leo!"

"A _priest_, Assumpta? After all you've been through with the Church? Is it God you're trying to get back at, or your father?"

Assumpta didn't realize what she was doing until she heard the sharp sound of her hand against Leo's face. He looked as surprised as she felt. Reeling a half-turn backwards, he lost his balance and sat down hard on the sidewalk. Assumpta peered at him suspiciously. She didn't think she'd hit him _that_ hard. "Have you been drinking?" she demanded.

"I wish." Leo let out a raw laugh. "What kind of Irishman can't drown his sorrows in drink? But I can't. Can't drink, can't sleep, can't eat. Your phone was dead, so I couldn't even call. Not that that's such a problem; I would have just come in person, but no, I had to go up north to cover the strikes. How's _that _for timing? Stuck there for a week, pretending to care about a bunch of people marching around with bloody _signs_? It was like a level of hell had been created specially for me." It was impossible to tell whether the sound that escaped his chest was a laugh or a sob.

"I'm sorry."

He shrugged off her apology, fingering the welt on his cheek gingerly. "I think I probably deserved it."

Assumpta had meant more than that, but she didn't correct him. Instead she held out a hand to help him up. "Come inside. I'll get you some ice for that."

* * *

Niamh stood at the cooker, scrambling eggs and listening with half an ear as her husband answered the phone. It was only twenty to seven, but early phone calls…and late ones and ones that came right in the middle of dinner…were nothing new in her household.

"Gard Egan, here." Ambrose was already dressed in his freshly pressed uniform. He had a tea towel tucked in at the neck to protect it from stray bits of breakfast and from Kieran, whom he held against one shoulder. He looked adorable, Niamh thought, and she waggled her eyebrows at him suggestively.

Ambrose frowned at her, all business. He seemed to be having trouble hearing the person on the other end of the line. "Hello? Can you speak up, please…Assumpta? Is that you?"

"Give it here!" Niamh moved the pan off the heat and grabbed for the phone. "Assumpta? What's the matter?"

"Look out your front window," her friend hissed on the other end of the phone.

"What? Why are you whispering?"

"Just _look_, would you?"

"All right! Hang on." Rolling her eyes at Ambrose, Niamh laid the receiver down, went into her sitting room and pushed back a curtain. After a moment, her eyes came to rest on the little black car parked in front of Fitzgerald's. "Oh, no!"

"What's going on?" Ambrose demanded as she rushed back into the kitchen.

"Leo McGarvey's here."

He stared at her blankly. "So?"

She rolled her eyes again and snatched the receiver back up. "Is he bothering you?" she asked Assumpta. "Do you want me to send Ambrose over?"

"No, it's all right. I sent him off to bed with an ice pack a little before three and I haven't heard anything more from him."

"An ice pack?"

"Yeah…I'll tell you later. Listen, Niamh, I've got to stay here in case Leo wakes up. Will you run up to your father's and catch Peter before he comes down for mass? Otherwise, he's going to see the car and…"

"Right. Of course I will." Niamh glanced at her husband, who was still watching her curiously. "But I think I owe Ambrose an explanation."

* * *

Ambrose strolled down the street, pushing his son's pram and trying to look like he was on routine patrol. In actuality, he was keeping a particular eye on the pub. He suspected that Assumpta Fitzgerald was fully capable of protecting herself, but you never knew. More even-keeled men than Leo McGarvey had been known to go off the deep end when matters of the heart didn't go their way.

Ambrose wasn't sure how he felt about what Niamh had told him before she went dashing off on her bicycle a half-hour ago. He held a deep-seated belief in the institutions that gave order to society: the family, the community, the law, the Church. On the other hand, he hadn't forgotten the days following his narrow miss with the falling statue, how a terrifying emptiness would wash over him every time he thought of facing life without Niamh by his side. He wouldn't wish that feeling on his worst enemy, much less someone he considered a friend.

Down the road came Peter's little red car, creeping at a snail's pace. Ambrose frowned at it. Why was Peter here driving down the road when Niamh was supposed to have gone up to her father's to talk to him? Then he saw that the car was not moving under its own power. Padraig sat at the wheel, steering and working the brakes, while Liam and Donal pushed from behind.

"That's one way to get that car to move." Brendan Kearney coasted up on his bicycle and came to a stop next to Ambrose. He cast a concerned look across at Fitzgerald's. "That's Leo McGarvey's car there, wouldn't you say, Ambrose?"

"I believe it is." Ambrose followed his gaze, wondering how much of the story the schoolteacher knew. Niamh had sworn him to secrecy, and there would be hell to pay if he said something he shouldn't.

"Speak of the devil," Brendan muttered.

"I beg your pardon?"

Brendan shook his head dismissively. "Nothing. Just thinking of a conversation I had with Assumpta yesterday." His eyes rested on Kieran in his pram. "Where's Niamh?" he asked.

"Gone up to her father's for a minute."

"To speak to Peter?"

Ah. The whole story, apparently. "I don't believe that's any of your concern, Brendan."

"I'll take that as a yes. That's good anyway." He sighed, and both men turned their attention back to the slow progress of Peter's car down the street.

"All right, lads, put your backs into it," Padraig shouted, and with a final shove from Liam and Donal, the car rolled into a parking space in front of the garage. Padraig climbed out of the driver's seat, slapped them each on the shoulder, and crossed to where Ambrose and Brendan were standing.

"How'd you get those two out of bed so early?" Brendan called out as he approached.

"The power of the pint," Padraig grinned, spreading his hands expansively. "It's a beautiful thing."

"Don't get used to it," Ambrose warned. "Assumpta's due to open back up again on Friday, and then your little pub turns back into a garage."

"And your coach turns back into a pumpkin too," Brendan added. "For God's sake, Ambrose, let the man enjoy it while it lasts."

"That's all right," Padraig said affably. "Anyway, looks like Assumpta's got a visitor. I can always hope she'll get distracted."

"Wouldn't count on it," Brendan commented drily.

Ambrose straightened his jacket and took hold of the pram's handle, determined not to be a party to the divulgence of any secrets. "You two may have time to stand around and gossip all morning, but I'm on patrol," he declared, and set off down the street.

Padraig watched him go. "What was that all about?"

Brendan put an arm around his friend's shoulders and chuckled. "Oh, he's probably under orders. Me, I'm free and clear. Make us a cup of tea, would you? There's a story I think it's time you heard."

* * *

"It's safe. She's gone off home."

Father Mac jumped guiltily and jerked his head round to see Michael Ryan leaning against the wall near the sacristy door. He was about to protest that he had no idea what Michael was talking about, but he saw the laughter playing around his old friend's eyes and knew that it was unnecessary. Stepping the rest of the way through the door, he joined Michael against the wall, feeling the old stones transferring their stored heat to his tired shoulders. "I'm just not sure I have the patience for Kathleen this morning," he sighed.

"You don't have to explain to me," the doctor told him. "I'm the one who advised you to try to limit the stress in your life, remember?"

"Vaguely," Father Mac answered.

Michael studied the priest's face. "Of course, I also suggested that you back off on your work schedule, and I can see how well that's going."

"Yes, well…" Father Mac shrugged, "there's not much I can do about that at the moment."

"I suppose not." Michael raised his hand in greeting as Siobhan and Peter bumped past in the vet's truck. Father Mac's eyes followed the truck a bit wistfully.

"He's so young, really. You know the saying about the camera adding ten pounds? Well, the collar adds about ten years. People expect you to have all the answers, even if you're just a kid out of seminary."

The doctor listened without comment.

"I don't know, Michael. Maybe I was too hard on him. If I'd been less critical, more…what's the word everyone uses nowadays?...supportive…"

"It wouldn't have made a difference."

"No?"

Michael shook his head. "Peter may be young, but he's strong…and stubborn. If he thought he was meant to stay a priest, he would have stayed one, regardless of the working conditions."

"He was a good priest."

"He's a good man." Michael let that sink in for a moment before continuing. "Did you know he's working as Siobhan's assistant?"

Father Mac's contemplative mood was broken. He turned his sharp gaze on Michael. "What does Siobhan need with an assistant? Is she ill?"

"She's not ill," Michael replied carefully, "she's just going to need some help for awhile."

"I'm her priest, Michael! If there's something wrong, I should know about it."

The doctor shook his head. "It's not my place, Frank. But I will tell you that I think Peter could be a real godsend to her. Rumor has it he's been asked to leave town. Do you really think that's necessary?"

"Oh, not you too!" Father Mac bristled. "To hear the people in this town talk, it's a wonder Ballykissangel was able to exist at all before Peter Clifford arrived! First Kathleen, then Brian, now you…"

"_Kathleen_?"

"Well, I suppose Kathleen's motives were somewhat different," Father Mac admitted, "but it amounts to the same thing. Listen, Michael, I'll tell you what I've told them: I've put it in the hands of the bishop. We'll just have to wait and see what he decides."

Michael nodded. "Fair enough."

The two men fell silent for a moment; then Father Mac chuckled.

"What?" Michael asked.

"I was just thinking about what you said about Peter being strong," the parish priest explained. "He's going to need all the strength he can get, isn't he?"

Michael raised his eyebrows. "We all do, I suppose. Why do you say so?"

"Well, I believe the poor man means to marry Assumpta Fitzgerald!"


	17. One Thing at a Time

**Author's Note: This one's for you, LJA - hope you're still reading and that you're feeling better! Thanks as always to everyone who's still with me after nearly a year of this story. Who knew it would go on this long?**

Peter slammed the rear door of the truck, having located the new pair of gloves Siobhan had asked him to find. He had the distinct impression that she was trying to keep him busy but, while he appreciated the effort, it wasn't keeping his mind from wandering, oh every ten seconds or so, to the sight of Leo's smart little convertible parked in front of Fitzgerald's. There was no reason to worry, he kept telling himself. After all, hadn't Assumpta sent Niamh up specifically to tell him _not_ to worry? Still, the idea that Leo was there and he was not, that Leo had apparently spent at least part of the night at the pub, refused to be banished from his mind.

Furthermore, this work arrangement, which had seemed so perfectly to meet both his needs and Siobhan's, seemed thus far to consist mostly of him riding around in Siobhan's truck with her and watching her work. He would fetch things she had forgotten in the truck or do the heavy lifting or help keep the animals calm so she perform her examinations, but he had yet to be assigned any tasks that really seemed like Siobhan couldn't have done them herself or with help from the animals' owners.

Peter took a deep breath and counseled himself to patience. Major life changes couldn't be expected to fall perfectly in to place all at once, no matter how much he might want them to_._ How often had he told parishioners that very thing? _Wait…and have faith._ Easier said than done, as it turned out.

Walking back to the barn, Peter surveyed the tidy farmhouse, kitchen garden and outbuildings that made up the Rourke farm. His work as a priest had never required him to visit the Rourkes, though he had spoken to them most Sundays at mass and often saw Declan at the youth club. Today the boy had been allowed to take the morning off from school in order to be present when Siobhan came to examine his horse. Concern showed plainly on Declan's face as he stood holding the mare's slim head, talking to her softly and stroking her neck while the vet ran practiced hands along the length of her hind leg looking for the cause of the swelling just below the hock.

Siobhan straightened. "That's a good girl," she crooned to the mare, patting her flank. "Looks like she's strained a ligament," she told Declan. "That can cause some inflammation, but with treatment and rest it should heal up right as rain. I've got some liniment in my truck that I'll give you to rub on the leg." Turning, she noticed Peter standing there with the gloves. "Oh, thanks, Peter. Turns out I didn't need those after all."

"Really?" Peter deadpanned.

Siobhan shrugged, grinning at the note of exaggerated surprise in Peter's voice, and headed to the truck to find the liniment. Peter shook his head, exasperated. Glancing at Declan, he caught the relief in his face. The boy would need a moment to regain his composure, he sensed, so he approached the horse instead. "It sounds like you're going to be just fine," he told her softly, stepping closer and holding out his hand. She nuzzled her nose into it, tickling his palm.

Declan cleared his throat. "She's always looking for a treat," he told Peter, procuring a piece of carrot from his pocket and feeding it to the horse. "Completely spoiled, she is."

"How long have you had her?"

"Since she was a foal." Declan looked at the toes of his boots. "That bump on her leg had me worried. I'm glad it's just a strain, that's for sure." He gave the horse's neck a parting scratch, and he and Peter walked out of the barn together. Outside, Declan stopped to latch the door and looked sideways at Peter. "So, you're helping Dr. Mehigan now?"

Peter snorted. "I don't know about helping, but I'm keeping her company, anyway."

"Must be different...after being a priest, I mean."

"That's for sure."

"We'll miss you at the youth club. The kids, well, they're not used to having a priest who can actually relate to them."

Peter felt a pang. "I'll miss being there. Maybe after things settle down a little bit I could volunteer or something."

"That'd be great." Declan paused a bit awkwardly. "Except no one's going to know what to call you now."

"Yeah," Peter chuckled. "I get a lot of that these days. Just Peter is fine, or Mr. Clifford, if that's more comfortable." He tried not to squirm as Declan squinted at him with his head to one side, obviously trying out the names in his head.

"All right," the boy said finally, apparently not having come to a conclusion, "well anyway, can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"You know Kevin O'Kelley, right?"

"Yeah, I know Kevin."

"He's a friend of my brother's," Declan explained. "It's probably not my place to say, but from what I'm hearing it sounds like he's in a bit of a tough spot."

"Oh yeah?" Peter leaned casually against the side of the barn, trying to give the impression of having all the time in the world, though he knew Siobhan was probably anxious to get on to the next call.

Declan kicked idly at a pebble. "Well, after the pub burned out, his dad got all sorts of beer and stuff that couldn't be sold and he's keeping it in his garage. Some of the kids got wind of it and they're trying to get Kevin to sneak some out to them, telling him there's so much of it his dad will never notice."

Peter frowned. "Are these kids friends of Kevin's?"

"Nah, not really. They're older. One guy's new, just moved here from Dublin, and he's got them hanging around up by the youth club after it's closed at night."

Peter recalled the snippets of Brendan and Ambrose's conversation about graffiti at the youth club that he had overheard, ironically while drinking some of the same beer Declan was referring to. He had a feeling the two stories might be related. "Why doesn't Kevin just tell them no?" he asked.

Declan shrugged. "This guy, Cullen, plays it tough. I don't think he really is, but he talks a good game. Plus," he paused and gave a sheepish grin, "he's got a younger sister, about Kevin's age…"

"Ah," Peter nodded. "Of course he does." He thought for a moment. "Well, I need to have a word with Kevin's dad later anyway. Would it help if I suggested that he might want to keep the beer locked up? That would take it out of Kevin's hands. choice."

Declan considered this idea, then nodded slowly. "Would you mind? You won't tell him why?"

"I'll just say I heard some of the kids in town had their eye on it, how's that?"

Declan looked relieved. "That's grand. Thanks a lot. I mean, I know it's not your job anymore and all..."

"It's everybody's job to look out for each other," Peter said firmly. "You're doing it just as much as I am."

Declan's ears went red. "I guess," he shrugged.

Peter studied the young man. "What about this Cullen. Does he like football?"

"Dunno." Declan shook his head. "I've never really talked to him."

"You might give it a try." Peter suggested casually. "See if he wants to kick a ball around with you and your friends or drop by the youth club…when it's open, that is. My guess is, he's just looking for a way to fit in."

Declan considered this for a moment. "Yeah," he replied. "You might be right. Thanks…Peter."

Peter had the odd sense that he had passed some sort of test. He straightened and clapped a hand on Declan's shoulder. "Well," he said, "shall we go and see if Dr. Mehigan's found that liniment?"

As the vet's truck bumped out of the Rourke farm road several minutes later, Siobhan cast a sideways glance at Peter and chuckled.

"What?" Peter asked.

"I was just thinking," she answered, "that if we're going to be offering counseling services at every call, I'm going to have to raise my rates!"

* * *

Dan Clifford sprawled in the soft grass overlooking the canal. He pulled the water bottle out of its cage on his bike and drank deeply.

"Quite a pace you were setting!" Rose called out as she pulled up. She propped her bike against a tree and flopped down next to Dan, pulling off her helmet. Freed from its confines, her dark hair immediately sprang into tiny ringlets around her face. Her eyes sparked from the exertion of the ride.

"Sorry," Dan flashed her a grin, momentarily forgetting the dark mood that had plagued him since he had visited his mother yesterday.

"Who says I'm complaining?" Rose replied. "I can take it if you can. Did it help?"

"Help what?"

She narrowed her eyes at him knowingly. "Nice try, Danny, but I'm a trained professional, remember? I'm just glad you're one to beat yourself up out on the bike trail and not on a barstool."

Dan lay back in the grass, not sure if it was more maddening or comforting that Rose always saw right through him. "She just seemed so _old_ all of a sudden, you know? And she was fine a week ago." He threw an arm over his eyes, blocking out the sun and Rose's perceptive gaze. "I was just coming to terms with this whole thing with Peter and now..." He heaved a long sigh.

"Now...?"

"Well, now it seems like he's made Mum sick on top of everything else."

"I know. I'm sorry."

It was an answer that anyone might have given, but it felt somehow more genuine coming from Rose, like maybe she really did understand. Dan knew he was being unreasonable. He was certain that Rose knew it too. Congestive heart failure, the doctors had said. Not something that just suddenly came on a person in the course of a week, however eventful and upsetting the week might have been. He appreciated the fact that she didn't feel the need to point this out or offer any pat solutions. Not many people knew when it was best just to listen, but Rose did. It was one of the things that made her an excellent therapist...and a good friend. He moved his arm slightly so that he could peer out at her. Sitting there crosslegged in the grass, petite, dressed for a morning bike ride, she could easily be mistaken for a child until you saw her eyes, wise and warm.

_ Still just friends, huh?_ He heard Jamie's teasing just as clearly as if his brother had been standing right there.

Dan grimaced. _One thing at a time_. That was wishful thinking, of course...or cowardice. If the last week had demonstrated anything it was that life never happens one thing at a time.

* * *

Assumpta's knife flew across the cutting board. The kitchen was already fragrant from the huge pot of stew simmering on the cooker and the ham roasting in the oven. Three golden-brown loaves of soda bread and a sheet cake were cooling out of the draught of the open window. Assumpta scooped up a double handful of diced carrots, tossed them into the stew, and wiped her hands on the tea towel she had tucked in at her waist. Leaning against the table, she consulted her list. Friday night's menu was coming together quickly, completely fueled by nervous energy.

By the time she'd convinced Leo to go off to bed and put off their conversation till morning, any hope she'd had of regaining sleep herself was gone. She'd sat quietly in the dark reception area for awhile, listening for any movement from above, but Leo's exhaustion seemed to have got the better of him. Just before four she had gone up to her room to shower and put on work clothes. She'd been in the kitchen ever since, and it was now…she glanced at the clock on the wall…nearly half ten. Assumpta threw out the dregs of the pot of coffee she had made six hours ago and started a fresh one. Leo couldn't sleep forever and he was impossible without his coffee.

She felt a pang of guilt for this and every other small truth about Leo that she had collected over the years, things that, possibly, only she would know. She had behaved badly, making Leo wait for so long, taking it for granted that he would keep coming back. She should have put an end to it long ago, but she had had no good reason to, only a feeling that she was waiting for something...more. Impatiently she shook herself from her reverie. Better to keep busy, not to think about the fact that as soon as Leo awoke she would have the sad task of breaking his heart.

She went through the door into the bar and set about adorning its freshly painted walls with the collection of art she had chosen. Some of the old familiar pieces, like the antique map of County Wicklow, she restored to their usual spots. Others she set aside in favor of things she had brought down from her room or from the attic: a mountain landscape painted by a local artist, a framed photograph of water cascading over stones in the Aingeal. When all the other pieces had been hung, she removed from its tissue wrappings a small, flat object woven of twigs. Her mother's St. Brigid's cross. Assumpta let it rest in her hands for a moment, her chest tight with remembering the day she had last held it.

She had stepped into the pub, its new sole proprietor at twenty-three years old, having buried her mother just the day before. Her eyes had settled on the cross, an object that had symbolized solace and strength to her mother yet in the end had brought her neither. With her grief so new and raw that she saw everything through its lens, Assumpta had felt suffocated by its presence, unable to tolerate it a moment more. She remembered dragging a barstool over to where it hung above the kitchen door and climbing up with the stool had teetering beneath her to snatch the cross off the wall. She had meant to hurl it into the nearest garbage bin, but something had stayed her hand and she had buried it in a drawer under a pile of table linens instead. Now it was time to put it back in its place.

She was on the stepladder placing the cross on its nail when Leo made his appearance.

"My eyes must be deceiving me."

Startled, Assumpta caught her breath and turned. "Good morning, Leo."

"It _is_ you. I thought so at first, but then when I saw what you were hanging there I figured I must be mistaken."

The scornful amusement in Leo's voice went a fair way towards canceling out the pity Assumpta had been feeling for him. "It was my mother's, as you know very well," she returned, a bit sharply. "Is it not enough to come banging down my door in the wee hours? You really need to insult the memory of my parents as well?"

Leo dipped his head. "I didn't come here to fight with you, Assumpta," he said quietly.

"Fine." Assumpta descended the ladder. "Will I get you a cup of coffee then?."

They went through to the kitchen and sat on opposite sides of the worn table with their drinks before them. Assumpta had chosen orange juice over more coffee, feeling jittery enough without the introduction of additional caffeine. Looking across at Leo she flashed back to the conversation she'd had the previous week with Peter across his mother's table. She had never before considered the cumulative import of all the discussions over all the kitchen tables of the world, how they were weightier even than the talks of world leaders over conference tables.

"So, why did you come?" she asked.

Leo smiled his most charming smile. "To win you back," he said simply. "What else?"

Assumpta sighed. "You can't win back something you didn't have to begin with, Leo."

"Ah, but I did have you once."

"That's a very long time ago now."

"There's no statute of limitations last time I checked." His cheeky tone sobered as he went on. "I love you Assumpta. I think you're making a mistake."

"Oh, really."

"You've gotten yourself mired in this godforsaken little town," he began, gathering steam. Assumpta bit back the retort on her tongue, and he continued, "I don't know whether it's simple inertia or whether you think it's some sort of penance or whether your sense of family loyalty is just ridiculously overdeveloped - but you've convinced yourself it's enough for you. Then the first link to the wider world arrives and you think you've fallen in love...never mind that he's not available, never mind that your world views are completely incompatible, never mind that he has nothing to offer you..." The passion of his argument drew Leo out of his chair, and he paced to the window and back. "You're selling yourself short, Assumpta! You're so much more than this!" A sweep of his hand indicated the kitchen, the pub, the street beyond.

"Leo..."

He held up his hand, not wanting to be stopped. "I was thinking on the way up here last night...do you remember that night after one of your shows when we sat up all night on the roof making plans? How we were going to go off to New York together? We could still do it, Assumpta. Come with me. We'll go away and see what becomes of us in the bright lights."

His voice had taken on a note of pleading that was painful to hear

"Leo. Sit down."

He sat, looking hurt. "You've forgotten."

Assumpta shook her head. "I haven't forgotten. How could I forget a night like that? But Leo, I was a nineteen year-old girl then, playing at being grown up, looking for adventure. That's not who I am anymore." She spread her hands wide. "This is me now. This is my life."

"It doesn't have to be."

"No," she agreed calmly. "It doesn't have to be. But I want it to be."

An angry flush began to rise in Leo's neck. "Does he know how you feel about the Church?" he asked, trying a different tack.

Assumpta let out a surprised laugh, "You know he does. It would be hard to live in Ballykay for three years and manage to miss that small item, don't you think?"

"And you don't see that as a problem."

"Of course it's a problem. All couples have problems to overcome. If you're asking whether I think it's an insurmountable one, then no, I don't."

"Does he know _why_ you feel the way you do?" That struck a nerve. Assumpta's spine straightened and her eyes began to flash. "I'll take that as a no."

Assumpta took a deep breath and summoned all her patience and compassion. "Leo," she said, as gently as she could, "I love you. But I haven't been in love with you for a long time. And I'm not going to change my mind." He seemed suddenly smaller somehow, sitting across the table with his dark head bowed. Tears pricked at her eyes, but she knew it wasn't going to do anyone any good to prolong the agony. She stood. "It's time for you to go."

* * *

Niamh had just poked her head into the Gard's Office to announce lunch when the sound of tires squealing on pavement interrupted her. Immediately Ambrose, a stern frown settling on his features, rose from his chair, snatched up his cap and prepared to go after the offending driver. Niamh crossed to the window.

"Wait," she called.

Ambrose paused in his tracks, the frown deepening. "Oh, and let a maniac driver endanger public safety?"

Niamh turned from the window. "This maniac driver won't be around for long," she told him, "and I'd guess he's been punished enough for one day."


	18. Facing Demons

The car was gone. It was the first thing Peter noticed upon leaving Padraig's, and it wiped everything else from his mind – the morning's conversation with Declan Rourke, his frustration at not being more use to Siobhan, even Padraig's uncharacteristically curt refusal of his offer to help move the crates of beer to a more secure location.

The urge to go running up the street at top speed, see Assumpta and put his mind at ease gripped him. He grasped the wrought iron fence beside the sidewalk to anchor himself in place. _Slow Down. Think._ The squeal of tires he'd heard from inside the garage must have been Leo's, then. That would already have people peering from behind their curtains. They didn't need the next scene to be him sprinting toward the pub Leo had just left. Give Assumpta a little time to recover. It couldn't have been an easy morning for her, either.

Niamh burst from her house, apparently unhindered by any of these concerns. Peter watched, half amused, half annoyed, as she flew across the street and disappeared through the front door of Fitzgerald's. He shoved his hands into his pockets and allowed himself to begin a leisurely stroll toward the pub, but he hadn't got far when Niamh reappeared. She caught sight of Peter and threw her hands in the air, exasperated. "No sign of her," she called. She crossed back to her own doorstep and waited there for Peter to join her.

"Where's she gone, do you think?" Peter asked with false nonchalance.

"Haven't a clue," Niamh huffed. "She could have at least left a note."

Peter nodded idly, a knot growing in his stomach. Niamh caught his look and said in a calmer tone, "Well, don't worry. I'm sure she's fine. Ambrose had his eye on the place all morning, and there was no sign of trouble." Kieran wailed somewhere inside, and Niamh sighed. "I'm sorry, Peter. I have to get back."

"Of course." Peter nodded again.

"Do you want to come in? I'll put the kettle on."

"No, thanks." He attempted a smile. "Siobhan'll be along for me any minute now."

"All right." Niamh studied his face with concern. "It'll get easier, you know."

Just then, Peter didn't know any such thing, but he smiled anyway. "Thanks, Niamh."

* * *

"I don't like it," Ellie declared, giving the cupboard door a little slam and turning to face her husband sitting at the table. "How would you feel, if you were in Peter's place?"

Jamie raked his fingers through alread dissheveled sandy hair and sighed. He looked exhausted. "What do you want me to do, El? She specifically asked Danny and me not to call. She doesn't want him to feel like it's his fault."

Ellie set her hands on her hips. "I want you to be a grown-up and call anyway. She's his mother too. He should know what's going on."

Jamie rose from his chair and took two bottles of beer from the refrigerator. He opened them and handed one to Ellie. "It's not a question of being a grown-up," he said finally, holding the cold bottle against his forehead. "It's a question of honoring Mum's wishes."

Ellie sipped her beer, brow furrowed. "What if I call him, then?" she suggested. "She didn't say anything to me about it."

Jamie chuckled. "You are a wily one, aren't you?" He took Ellie's beer out of her hand, put both bottles down on the table and pulled her to him. "Just give it a couple of days, all right? They're just keeping her for observation. Who knows? She may be home by then."

Ellie slowly relaxed against his chest. "All right, I suppose. But I still don't like it."

Jamie sighed against her hair. He knew just how she felt.

* * *

Padraig wiped his sweaty forehead on his sleeve and looked around morosely. He stood next to a stack of crates he had just finished shifting in the room above his garage, a space that was stuffy and dusty and smelled of failure. He had worked day and night to remodel it into an apartment for Fionnuala's mother back in the days when he still believed that her mother's needs were the only thing drawing his wife out of town with increasing frequency. Now he never came up here if he could avoid it.

Padraig aimed a desultory kick at the bottom-most crate in the stack, causing the bottles inside to rattle. Why hadn't it occurred to him that he should keep the beer Assumpta had given him locked up? It didn't take a genius to figure out that sooner or later the village kids would hear about it and try to find a way to get their hands on it. He'd have done the same as a lad. But no, he'd had to hear it from Peter, just as he'd had to hear Peter's own story from Brendan a couple of hours earlier.

He stepped out onto the landing at the rear of the building, slamming the door locked behind him._ That's what they'll put on my tombstone one day_, he thought bitterly on the way down the stairs. _Here lies Padraig O'Kelly, always the last to know._

_

* * *

_

The stone broke the surface of the Aingeal with a resonant splash, wide of the log Peter had been aiming for. He bent to pick up another. Siobhan had dropped him in front of Fitzgerald's when they were finished with calls for the day, and he'd fully expected (he told himself) to find Assumpta there, but she was nowhere to be seen. The worries he'd shut out of his mind all afternoon were threatening to break down the door. Where on earth was she?

_ Could be halfway to London by now._

He sailed another stone, this time hard enough to take it all the way to the opposite bank.

"I'm glad to see the fish are in no real danger."

Peter turned quickly, taking an awkward step backwards and nearly losing his footing on the loose, uneven stones. There she was, holding her hair out of her face with one hand and Fionn's collar with the other.

"Sorry. I didn't mean to startle you."

"It's all right." He breathed deeply, relief coursing through his body. "Where..." _Where have you been? _ Even in his head it sounded accusatory, clingy. "How did you know I was down here?"

She shrugged. "Everyone has their hiding places. I've already been to your other one."

Peter's brow furrowed for a moment. "You went looking for me at St. Joseph's?"

"Mmmhmmm." She chuckled darkly. "I'm facing all my demons today."

He raised an eyebrow. "And? How's that going?"

"Emmm..." he saw anxiety in her eyes. "Ask me again in an hour. Come on." She turned and clambered back up the bank at a pace that left Peter scrambling to keep up.

Instead of following the well-worn track back to the village, Assumpta led the way along a faint footpath that followed the river and then an even fainter one that wove between the rocks on its way up the hillside, lithe and sure-footed on terrain she'd been walking since childhood. Any advantage Peter's long legs would have given him in keeping up with her was offset by the necessity of choosing his footing carefully. They had been climbing for several minutes when Assumpta left the path and sprang effortlessly over a stone wall so thickly overgrown with moss that Peter would not have known it was there. He followed, pausing on the other side to catch his breath and get his bearings.

The path had brought them to the rise beyond St. Joseph's, into the oldest part of the graveyard. Even the priest wasn't called upon to come here frequently, since new graves were dug farther up the hill and closer to the road. The land and many of the grave markers had been overtaken by grasses and wildflowers; some stones had been tipped by the heaving of frost and lay haphazardly on the ground, slowly succumbing to the encroaching moss The air itself felt ancient and mystical. Among it all, Assumpta moved, far enough ahead to seem like some elusive Celtic wood nymph.

They crested a knoll and Peter found himself gazing down into a little dell where Assumpta stood waiting for him beside a large marker topped with a Celtic cross. Moss and ivy covered many of the stones here, too, but the grasses and weeds had been neatly trimmed back. Among the ancient, lichen-mottled stones lay two obviously more recent ones between which bloomed a profusion of bluebells. Beneath a nearby crabapple tree lay a trowel, some clippers and a pair of gardening gloves.

Peter beheld the scene with growing understanding. He sought Assumpta's eyes. "Is this where you've been all afternoon?" he asked incredulously.

She nodded. "Where did you think I'd been?"

"Well," Peter responded drily, "I had a variety of ideas, but none of them included St. Joseph's churchyard." He began to walk quietly amongst the stones, pausing here and there to run a hand along the top of an old stone, crouching to puzzle out a name. When he had made his way to the pair of newer stones, he came to a stop between them and bowed his head, not needing to read the inscriptions to know that this must be the final resting place of Assumpta's parents. He stood still for a long moment before offering up a wordless prayer and making his way to the stone bench on the far side of the crabapple to wait. The story of this place was Assumpta's to tell in her own time.

* * *

"You ratted us out, didn't you, you little squealer?"

Declan, just leaving the high school on his way home from looking in on the teachers whose classes he'd missed that morning, frowned and turned.

"I didn't, I swear!" Kevin O'Kelly was protesting, trapped between the unbudging heft of Cullen Murray and a cement retaining wall. Declan's brother Joseph looked on nervously from a few feet away. "It was gone when I got home from school."

Declan shifted his books higher on to his shoulder and strolled casually toward them. _That's real tough, that is. Bullying kids half your size. _He shook his head in disgust. "Hey, Joe," he called, "I thought Mam told you to come straight home for chores after school. Don't think I'm coverin' for you again."

His brother turned a blank look on him. Their mother, of course, had made no such pronouncement, and it took a pointed glance from Declan toward Kevin to make Joe realize what his brother was up to. "Oh, yeah," he replied, a shade too enthusiastically. "I almost forgot."

"Go on up and give him a hand, Kevin," Declan went on, stepping closer and drawing Cullen's glower on himself. Kevin didn't need to be told twice.

Cullen's scowl deepened as the younger boys set off up the hill at a jog. "What d'ya think you're doing, barging in like that? Why don't you mind your own business?"

Declan bit back a retort about it being his business when someone was picking on his kid brother and simply leveled his gaze with Cullen's, letting him know he knew what had been going on. Cullen looked away first. "Forget it," he muttered, turning away.

Declan shook his head again. Fine with him. Let the loser go. But, in light of this morning's conversation, he could see something lonely about the defensive tough-guy set of the other boy's shoulders. Declan sighed. "Hey." Cullen looked back over his shoulder. "You play football?"

"What's it to you?" Cullen shot back suspiciously.

Declan turned away, disgusted. "Forget it. See you around." This wasn't worth it, no matter what Father Clifford said. He'd started for home when he heard Cullen call after him.

"I used to. In Dublin."

Declan turned back, cocked his head, sizing him up. He wasn't as tall as Declan, but his shoulders were broader. "Centre-back?"

A hint of reluctant interest glinted through Cullen's black expression. "Yeah."

Declan nodded. "We had a guy break his ankle last week. You ought to come out to practice and see if Coach can use you."

Cullen snorted. "If he can use me? I played for St. Fenton's before I left moved here. You lot couldn't keep up with me."

Declan shrugged. "Suit yourself. Anyway, I've got to go check on my horse."

Cullen's demeanor changed so drastically that he almost looked like a different person. "You have a horse? Of your own?"

* * *

"So, I thought it was time you met the family."

Assumpta had come to lean against the trunk of the crabapple so that her words seemed to be addressed to the distant hills rather than to Peter. Able to see only her profile from his seat on the bench, he had to listen very carefully to catch what she was saying. She wedged her hands into the pockets of her jeans, drew a deep shaky breath, and went on.

"It's one of the two oldest families in the valley, and they've both dwindled away to almost nothing. The other's Eamonn's; he's the end of the line, like me. You'd never know it now, but years ago you could hardly go a half mile without running across a household of Fitzgeralds. This whole hillside was my family's land, before my great-grandfather's grandfather signed some of it over for the church to be built on." She threw Peter a quick glance. "Funny how things work out."

"Not many Catholic families had the means to buy land, even after they were legally able to do so. But my family managed it somehow. Apart from that, our story is the same one you hear all over the country. Scraping a living off the land, hanging on tooth and nail to what independence we could all the while the damned English tried to pry it away from us. Then came _an Gorta Mor – _the Hunger. I don't really know how many of my relatives it killed, but you can see some of them there." She gestured toward a row of small, plain stones near Peter's feet. "Of the ones that lived, a lot of them took off running, getting as far away as they could to some other place where they might scrabble out a better living. When the bad times were finally over, more than half the Fitzgeralds were either dead or gone."

"My mother's people, the Malleys, were from west of here, near Annacurra, and they didn't fare much better. They gave up their farm and for some reason moved to Ballykissangel, probably hoping things would be better in town. And they were, eventually, though it was a couple of generations before they were really comfortable. My great-grandfather opened a butcher shop, made a success of it and passed it down to my grandfather."

"By this time my father's parents had taken over the pub, so the two families were in business just down the street from each other. My parents knew each other from the time they were born, just about. Not many of the old ones who knew them then are left now, but it used to be that someone was always telling me the story of how inseparable they were. My mother's mother died young, so she spent a lot of time helping her dad out in the shop. My dad had more freedom – there were three boys in his family and his mother didn't want them underfoot in the bar. But any time my parents had free, they spent together. As soon as they finished school, they were married."

"Neither of my dad's brothers had any interest in staying in Ballykissangel, much less in running the pub, so my parents had their choice of which family business they would take over. My mother hated to see her father's hard-earned business go out of the family, but the pub was more lucrative at the time. Right from the very beginning it was clear that she was the one with the business sense. My dad was everybody's best friend and the face behind the bar, but he and his friends would have drunk up all the profits if she'd let them. But, she didn't and they made a good living for a while. From all accounts, they were happy."

Assumpta reached up and plucked a gathering of blossoms from the branch above her head. She held it by its twig and twirled it between her thumb and index finger. When she spoke again a touch of bitterness had crept into her voice. "Of course, being good Catholics, they wanted to start a family, but it was nearly two years before my mother's first pregnancy. I'm sure I don't need to tell you that caused more than a few raised eyebrows in town. She lost the baby when she was about four months along. They were devastated, of course, but these things happen, so they kept trying and about a year and a half later I was born. They hoped that the first miscarriage had been a fluke, but they lost another baby when I was three and another when I was four and another when I was seven. And those are just the times I knew about.

"Doc Ryan had taken over his father's practice not long before I was born and he was very concerned for my mother's health. He told her she shouldn't get pregnant again, even offered to prescribe birth control pills, which was unheard of at the time. My father, on the other hand, had turned back to the Church for support. There was a new firebrand of a priest in town toeing the party line all the way, and telling anyone who would listen that any pregnancy was a gift from God, not to be denied."

She glanced sideways at Peter and met his eyes, attentive and grave. When he spoke, his mouth twisted as though the words themselves tasted bitter. "Father Mac."

Assumpta nodded. "None other. So, of course, things became strained between my parents. My mother turned all her attention to the pub and my father started drinking more and more. For awhile my mother covered for him, with the help of Brendan and some others, but eventually she told him he'd have to leave before he took her and me and the business down with him. It broke both their hearts, I think. They didn't know how to live apart, but they didn't know how to live together anymore, either."

"There were some hard years during the time I was in high school, and I didn't make things any easier on anyone. I couldn't wait to go away to college and once I did I hardly ever came home. I acted in as many shows as I could and worked backstage when I couldn't act. I waited tables and tended bar to pay the bills. I didn't figure on ever coming back to Ballykea. Then one morning I got the call saying my dad was in hospital in Cilldargen and all that went out the window. I got there in time to spend two days alongside my mother at his bedside before he died. Liver disease, the doctors said, but it was more like he died of sadness."

She stopped speaking, staring off into the hills but seeing instead her father in his hospital bed, dwindled in stature and spirit, and her mother beside him, unable to release his hand even long enough to allow the nurses to tend to him. She could understand, these years later, what her mother must have been feeling during those days, facing the loss of her life's love. A lump rose in her throat as she looked again at Peter. Compassion shone out from his eyes, but he did not try to fill the silence she had left with his own words. She was grateful for that.

"When it was over, they were going to bury him near where he'd been living outside Cilldargen, but my mother insisted he be brought back here to lie with his family where she could visit him. And she did visit, every day, until she got sick herself. I'd been coming back to help when she needed it and she seemed to need it more and more. She was tired all the time and one day she let it slip that she'd had some bleeding. I made her go to see Michael, and he sent her to a specialist, but there was so much scarring from all the miscarriages that they didn't find the cancer until it was beyond treatment. She was gone within six months. I walked out of St. Joseph's after her funeral and never set foot back in until you came to town."

"The day of the festival," Peter said softly. Assumpta nodded, her fingers going unconsciously to the spot above her eye where the stone had cut her that day. Peter rose from his seat on the bench and went to her, finding the tiny white scar with his own fingers, then with his lips as he'd wanted to do the day he'd bandaged the cut for her. His head reeled from the story he'd just heard. "Well," he said quietly, "That's enough to set anyone off the Church, I'd say."

Assumpta fought the urge to sink into his arms and never emerge. If she did that now she'd never finish what she had to say, never know how he'd react until it was too late. She laid a hand against his chest, keeping a space between them. "There's more."

"All right." He raised his eyebrows, waiting.

It was too difficult to look him in the eye, so Assumpta focused on one of the buttons of his shirt, toying with it as she spoke. "That headache I had the other day – my mother had them too, and her mother before her. They were both good Irish Catholic women who only had one living child and who died young. I don't know how it would be for me, but Michael says it's possible the headaches are an indicator. Something about hormone levels." She drew a deep breath and straightened her shoulders. "Peter...I've watched you with Kieran and with Sophie. You're a natural. You didn't have the chance to have children of your own before, but you do now. It's way too early for us to be having this conversation, I know, but...just think about it, okay?"

Peter looked down at her, thinking of the burdens those slender shoulders had borne alone for so long. He slid a hand beneath the dark curls at Assumpta's neck and pulled her to him, gently folding his arms around her. He held her, rocking ever so slightly, until he felt the tension begin to ease from her muscles. Her hands came around his waist and clung to the fabric of his shirt. He rested his cheek against her hair and spoke close to her ear. "You're right," he said. "I have all sorts of choices now that I didn't have as a priest. The funny thing is, only one seems to matter. I choose to be with you, Assumpta. The rest of the demons are ones we can face together."


	19. I Get By

The mesh sack of balls landed in the back of the Land Rover with a thud. Brian slammed the door behind them. Settling his tweed hat more securely on his head, he leaned against the side of the vehicle and watched as his team straggled off in pairs and small groups. Occasional shouts and bursts of laughter floated back on the evening air.

They weren't a half-bad team, actually. He'd gone into matches with far worse and still managed to beat Cilldargen in the days before that ringer Foley came along and broke his streak. Brian's nose wrinkled slightly. The thought of Edso Foley always carried with it the remembered scent of cow manure.

He'd have felt more confident about his team's chances if Peter wasn't sticking so stubbornly to his refusal to take Ambrose's place in goal, but Brian had given up arguing with him. He had a feeling he'd done all he could with Father Mac, too, and would just have to hope that the Church took its usual sweet time about finding a new priest so that Peter would still be around come game day. Niamh's crack of dawn appearance that morning with urgent news for Peter had given him a moment's pause, but it had turned out to be some drivel about that nosy McGarvey having turned up over night.

No, Brian would have to leave the matter of Peter to the fates. The best he could do now was to ace tomorrow's meeting in Dublin so that the tree huggers would want to come out for a site visit next week. "Environmentalists," he corrected himself, swinging up into the driver's seat. Apparently it was bad form to refer to his potential partners as tree-huggers.

Brian turned the key and revved the engine but didn't put the car into gear. Something about this business with Leo McGarvey was still bothering him. Why had it been so all-fired important for Niamh to announce McGarvey's arrival to Peter in person? Peter hadn't seemed particularly close to the journalist; if anything, he kept more of a distance with him than with most folks. And since he was no longer the priest he didn't have any real responsibility for the goings-on about town. Brian jiggled the gearshift back and forth idly. The more he thought about it, only one explanation fell in line with everything else that had been going on.

"I'll be damned!" he said aloud.

* * *

The sausages sizzled in the pan. Padraig gave them an impatient jab with the spatula and went to look out the window for the fifth time. Given the way his day had gone, it shouldn't have surprised him that Kevin had chosen tonight, the last before the real pub reopened, to be late for supper. Padraig shook his head in frustration and peered up the street. Finally. There was Kevin, rounding the corner at a leisurely pace. Beside him walked Peter. Padraig's scowl deepened. He tipped the sausages onto the two plates he'd laid at the table and banged the pan into the sink.

"Hi, Dad!" There was a familiar thump as Kevin tossed his school bag on the floor just inside the kitchen door.

"About time."

The boy glanced at his father on the way to wash his hands at the sink. "Sorry. I went up to Joe's after school." He dried his hands on the tea towel and took his seat at the table. "We did our homework," he added hopefully.

Padraig refused to be mollified. "Did you walk Fionn?"

Kevin picked up his fork and knife and cut off a bite of sausage. "I was going to," he said around the mouthful, "but I ran into Father Clifford on the way home and he said Assumpta'd had him out most of the afternoon. Fionn, I mean."

Padraig snorted.

"What?"

"Never mind. Eat your dinner – I need your help getting set up for tonight."

* * *

"How many crates are left?"

The front legs of Liam's chair hit the cement garage floor with a thud as he leaned forward to count. "I make thirteen, plus that one on the table over there. That's fourteen."

"Fourteen." Donal nodded thoughtfully. "And there's, what, twelve bottles in each? That's...well...twelve twelves is a hundred forty-four, plus another twenty-four...anyway, that's a lot of beer. I don't think we'll be able to finish it all tonight."

"Not unless a lot more people show up," Liam agreed. "Here comes somebody...she won't be much help, though." He raised his bottle in greeting. "How 'ya, Assumpta?"

"Fine, thanks. What won't I be much help with?"

"Finishing up all this beer before the real pub reopens," Donal explained seriously. "It's just the two of us plus your three at the table over there and Siobhan's having club orange."

Assumpta surveyed the remaining crates that had been salvaged from her basement. "Oh well, I'm sure Padraig won't mind having some left over for future reference. Isn't that right, Padraig?"

The mechanic leaned back in his chair, folded his arms across his chest, and glared at her.

"Padraig?"

Silence.

Assumpta turned to Siobhan. "What's going on?"

Siobhan pressed her lips together, but her eyes were laughing. "It seems Padraig's not speaking to you," she said.

"Not speaking to _me_?" Assumpta whirled back to Padraig. "What've I done, besides supply your little speakeasy here?"

Padraig rose to his feet. "Oh, that's rich. As if you weren't going to throw it all out anyway. I'm the one who helped you out, taking it off your hands. Because that's what friends do. They help each other out. You know what _else_ friends do, Assumpta? Hmmm? They tell each other about what's going on in their lives. Or at least that's what I've always thought."

Assumpta stared at him for a moment. Then she addressed Siobhan again. "Is this about...?"

Siobhan nodded.

"Did Peter talk to him?"

Siobhan shook her head.

"I did," Brendan admitted.

Assumpta glared at him. "Oh, great." She turned to Padraig again. "Listen, Padraig, Peter was going to tell you..."

"When, exactly?" he demanded. "And why Peter? Why not you?" At least these two," with a wave toward Siobhan and Brendan who were looking on in amusement, "had the decency to come clean. But not you, eh?"

Assumpta tried to speak reasonably. "Padraig, we have our reasons for not telling everyone. With the situation...".

"I'm not everyone, Assumpta. _Ambrose _knew before I did, for Christ's sake!" Padraig set down his drink. "I'm going to bed. You all turn off the lights when you're finished."

"No," said Assumpta. "I'll go. See you all tomorrow, I hope."

Everyone was silent as she went back out the door. Then Liam said, "She didn't stay long, did she? What was that all about?"

"No idea," replied Donal seriously. He picked two more sooty bottles and handed one to Liam. "Better keep drinking."

* * *

Quarter past four. Only forty-five minutes until she would open the doors to customers once again. Assumpta's stomach gave a nervous flop as she lit the oil lamp on the last table. She lifted her eyes and cast a critical eye around the pub. The brass shone, the glow of the lamps was reflected warmly in the tables' polished wood, the muted tones of the new carpet and curtains melted into the warm golden walls. Near the foot of the stairs was the complicated-looking sound system Kathleen's nephew would be using to provide music later in the evening. The room itself seemed to hum with anticipation.

Swallowing against a sudden tightness in her throat, Assumpta walked to the bar and ran a hand along its edge. For the first time in a long time, she could feel her parents there, like it had been before things went bad: her father's welcoming spirit behind the bar, the aromas of her mother's recipes wafting from the kitchen. She raised her eyes to the cross above the kitchen door and whispered, "Thank you." Who was she talking to? Her parents? St. Brigid? God? She couldn't say, but it felt somehow as though they had heard her.

A knock sounded at the door, which Assumpta had locked against the inevitable early birds. Shaking herself back to the present, she slid back the bolt and opened it a crack, then stepped back to let Peter in.

He pushed the door slowly closed again and looked around the room, mouth agape. Finally he let out a low whistle of admiration.

Assumpta watched, enjoying his reaction. "Is it all right, do you think?"

"All right?" He stared at her incredulously. "It's amazing. It's so..._yours_."

Assumpta felt quick tears springing to her eyes. She ducked behind the bar and began to set out glasses, wiping each one as she took it off the shelf. "Yeah, well, now we'll just wait and see if anyone shows up tonight."

Peter chuckled, but let her off the hook. He crossed the room to perch on his favorite stool, shrugging out of his jacket as he walked. "Have you seen Padraig?"

Assumpta shook her head. "You?"

"No." Peter sighed. "I stopped by earlier but he wasn't there, or else he just didn't want to see me."

She shrugged. "I'm not too worried about it. He'll brood about it for a few days, then he'll come 'round."

"I hope so." Peter pondered the situation for a moment longer, then brightened. "So...guess what I did today."

"Um, let's see...coffee with the pope?"

"Very funny. Come on, guess!"

His eyes sparkled with boyish excitement and Assumpta had a sudden urge to throw her arms around him. Instead, she pursed her lips and said, "Why don't you just tell me and save us both a lot of trouble?"

"Killjoy." Peter made a face at her. "Oh, fine." He puffed out his chest proudly and grinned as though he'd just announced winning the lottery. "_I_ caught a lamb."

Assumpta raised an eyebrow at him. "Oh, yeah? Who threw it?"

"No one threw it," Peter replied earnestly. "That's what they call it when you deliver a lamb. Or a foal, I think."

Assumpta burst into laughter. "I know that, you great eedjit. I'm the local here, remember?" But Peter looked so crestfallen that she took pity and leaned across the bar to plant a quick kiss on his cheek. "Ergh! I hope you don't think you're going to work in my bar smelling like Eamonn's pigsty!"

"Don't worry." Peter held up a duffel bag he had been carrying in one hand. "I've brought a change of clothes and everything. Is there a spare room I can use?"

"Take your pick." Assumpta gestured toward the full rack of keys hanging on the wall. "I haven't rented out any rooms tonight. There's a bathroom at either end of the hall."

"I know," answered Peter with a wry grin. "I've stayed here before, remember?"

Assumpta rolled her eyes, remembering the occasion. "And I should have known then and there that you were trouble. Well, off you go."

Peter had barely cleared the top step when another knock at the door announced the arrival of the extra help Assumpta had hired for the occasion, including Niamh, who came through the door slightly out of breath and pushing Kieran in his pram.

"I know," she said in response to Assumpta's questioning look. "Ambrose was supposed to be home by now to watch him, but he's gone off to the youth club to make his presence known. It's driving him mad that he can't figure out who's behind the graffiti up there. And Dad's gone to Dublin for some big meeting, so I couldn't ask him." She breezed through to the kitchen trailing Assumpta in her wake and parked the pram in the most out-of-the-way spot she could find. Tying a white apron over her black pinafore dress, she sent a sharp look at her friend. "He's onto you, you know."

Assumpta looked around to make sure none of the other waitstaff were listening. "I know," she answered in a low voice. "Peter told me they had a little man-to-man after practice last night. Would've liked to be a fly on the wall for that one!"

"Oh, yeah. If it was anything like the what-for he gave me this morning, I'm sure it was a barrel of laughs." Niamh went to the sink to scrub her hands. Drying them on a tea towel she glanced at the clock and then back at Assumpta with a frown. "You're not wearing that, are you?"

Assumpta looked down at her jeans and flannel shirt, both of which bore traces of various things on the evening's menu, gave a horrified shriek, and dashed from the room. She hazarded a glance at the clock. Only twenty-five minutes to go. And she had been congratulating herself on being ahead of schedule!

She took the stairs two at a time, her mind racing with what seemed like a million last minutes details to take care of, but when she reached the top they all fell away. Coming casually down the hallway from the bathroom, drying his hair on a towel he held in one hand, was Peter. He was wearing jeans...and nothing else.

Assumpta gasped and felt color flood into her face. Startled, Peter looked up and stopped short. The hand holding the towel dropped to his side and then gestured vaguely toward a room whose door stood ajar. "Sorry. I've left my shirt..." His voice cracked and trailed off into the charged air.

_Twenty-five minutes!_ A voice in Assumpta's head screamed. She swatted it away like a pesky fly.

Both her body and mind had gone strangely calm and she walked forward slowly, but deliberately, head tipped to one side, considering him.

He was not muscular, exactly, but he had an athlete's build; shoulders that looked broader without the masking of fabric, lean muscles curving along long arms, a strong chest. Three years of plentiful lager and pub cuisine had certainly softened him a little; still, his waist narrowed pleasingly to where the waistband of his jeans hugged his hips.

Assumpta came to a stop about an arm's reach away and allowed her eyes to drift leisurely back up towards his face. She gave him a brazen grin. "Well!" she exclaimed.

He blushed deep crimson, grinning awkwardly but broadly in return.

She took another half step forward and raised her hand, laying it against his chest, where the light growth of soft brown hair was still shower-damp. His heartbeat hammered against the light pressure of her fingers.

Suddenly there was a great banging at the door at the foot of the stairs and Brendan's voice was shouting from outside, "How long does a man have to wait to get a drink around here?"

Assumpta sprang guiltily back.

"Opening's in twenty-five minutes, Brendan. Can you not read the sign?" Niamh was answering, and Assumpta marveled that the scene she was sure would be replaying itself constantly in her mind for weeks to come and that had seemed to stretch over long moments had apparently taken up no time at all.

Peter raised an eyebrow. "Your public awaits," he said.

"Apparently," Assumpta sighed. "Damn customers."

He chuckled, visibly relaxing.

"Well," Assumpta allowed herself a last look before turning towards her door. "Another time, then." Grasping the knob, she looked back, to find Peter still gazing after her. "Go!" she hissed, shooing him towards the other open door.

* * *

Emerging from her room ten minutes later, Assumpta looked completely the polished hostess, though her nerves still jangled. Her hair had been smoothed back into a twist and secured neatly at the nape of her neck. She wore a black surplice dress with a full skirt that was simple and elegant yet comfortable to work in and silver ballet flats. A teardrop emerald pendant that had been her mother's nestled at her throat. Taking a deep, fortifying breath, she descended the stairs.

The pub was a bustle of activity. Peter was already there, now wearing a white shirt with his jeans and receiving strict instructions from Niamh about where the trays of hors d'oeuvres were to be placed. Assumpta gave them a wide berth, but as soon as Peter had been dispatched on his task, Niamh chased her down.

"Why didn't you tell me he was up there?" she demanded in a loud whisper.

"Can we talk about this later?" Assumpta whispered back.

Niamh's snort plainly conveyed that she never expected later to come.

At five minutes to five, with the clamor outside the door growing, Assumpta called the staff together for some last minute instructions. Looking around at their faces, she was gratified to see her own excitement and apprehension reflected in each one.

"Well," she said finally, squaring her shoulders, "here goes nothing." She walked to the door, swung it open, and the village poured in.

Leading the crowd, to no one's surprise, were Brendan, Siobhan and Padraig (hurt feelings set aside for the moment), who headed straight for the seats they'd claimed for years. They were followed closely by Liam and Donal, peering around suspiciously at the new decor before settling on stools at the other end of the bar. Next came some of Peter's teammates who greeted him with boisterous jibes and back slaps. After that the orders started coming so fast and furious that Assumpta lost track.

There were customers from Cilldargen and beyond who had read about the fire in the paper and come to see how the place had cleaned up. Then there were locals who didn't usually frequent Fitzgerald's but had come out for the event. Eamonn was there, looking positively overwhelmed by the crowd and nursing a diet Coke at a quiet table in the corner. At one point Assumpta caught a glimpse of Aileen Hegarty on the arm of a tall, gentle-looking man and felt pleased that Aileen had finally realized she could do better than to spend her life at the beck and call of Enda Sullivan.

Assumpta had just started to settle into the rhythm of the evening and enjoy herself when, shortly after six, she glanced up from her tap to see Father Mac making his way through the crowd. Beside him was Kathleen, wearing a smug little smile.

"What's with her?" Assumpta muttered to Niamh, who was pulling a pint next to her. "She looks like the cat that ate the canary."

"She does, doesn't she?" replied Niamh, with rather more interest that Assumpta thought the observation warranted. She turned a sharp gaze on her friend and found her watching the shopkeeper so intently that she had forgotten what she was doing.

"Niamh! Your pint!"

"Oh!" Niamh snapped back to attention a split second before streams of frothy stout would have run over onto the floor. "There you are," she told the bemused customer in front of her, setting the glass down in front of him. "Mind you don't spill it." And she walked away, headed for Kathleen, leaving Assumpta to collect the man's money.

Assumpta flew from customer to customer to tap to till to kitchen, calling orders to the help, answering questions, making change. Her face flushed and wisps of hair began to escape from the neat twist and curl around her face. She never remembered the bar this busy.

"The service is a little slow tonight," Brendan remarked benignly, as she dashed to refill his glass. The laughing cringe that followed the remark told Assumpta that Siobhan had kicked him under the bar.

"I'd like to see you try it, Brendan," Assumpta retorted. "I'm all on my own back here. Niamh's decided for some reason that it's the perfect time for a chat, and Peter's disappeared completely!"

"No he hasn't," Siobhan said. She pointed surreptitiously to a table near the window where the man in question sat across from Father Mac. Their heads were bent in discussion.

"Oh, perfect." Assumpta slammed her hand on the bar. "That's it. I'm going to give that man a piece of my mind."

"Actually," Siobhan said slowly, looking from Peter who had an expression of astonished delight spreading across his face to Niamh who was now beaming at Kathleen and looking as though she might hug her, "I'm pretty sure you'll be wanting to send over some whiskey on the house instead."

"Oh, really," fumed Assumpta. "And why the _hell_ would I want to do that?"

Siobhan smiled. "Just trust me on this one."

* * *

The bar filled to bursting. When Ambrose finally arrived Assumpta felt sure he was going to cite her for code violations, but he just retrieved his son from the kitchen and joined in with the festivities. At eight o'clock Assumpta put down her bar rag, smoothed back her hair and squeezed through the crowd to the foot of the stairs where Daniel was cueing up music.

"Ready to go?" she shouted over the din.

"Whenever you are," he grinned.

Assumpta stepped behind the microphone and tapped it. The noise subsided slightly. "Bit of hush," she called, and little by little people stopped their conversations and turned to look at her. Assumpta looked out at all the friendly faces. "Right. I would have been more nervous about this if I knew there were going to be so many of you." This drew a laugh from the crowd, and after it died down she went on, "I want to thank you all for coming out tonight. I hope you have a wonderful time and come back and see us again." The crowd clapped and stamped and Assumpta smiled. "I also want to thank everybody who helped make this evening possible – those who helped clean up after the fire, who cleaned out my basement," she sent a smile to Padraig who smiled back and looked down at his hands "who scrubbed and painted and moved furniture and hung curtains. There are too many of you to name, but you know who you are and I couldn't have done it without you. Anyway, this one's for you." She nodded to Daniel and familiar words rang out over the crowd.

_"What would you do if I sang out of tune_

_ Would you stand up and walk out on me?_

_ Lend me your ear and I'll sing you a song_

_ And I'll try not to sing out of key._

_ Oh, I get by with a little help from my friends.."_

By the time Assumpta made it back to the bar, it seemed the whole room had joined in on the chorus. She caught sight of Peter, who had miraculously garnered two stools and was motioning her into the one next to him. As she sank into it he grinned and handed her a glass of wine. "Having a good time?" he shouted.

Assumpta nodded, catching her breath. "Grand. What was that all about with Father Mac before, though?"

Peter shook his head, eyes twinkling. "That's for later," he said. "For now..." he handed her a glass of wine and raised his own. "To Fitzgerald's!"

_"Do you need anybody?_

_ I just need someone to love..."_


	20. Out of the Church

Peter awoke in a panic and shot up to a sitting position.

"Ow!" he winced. Sharp pain shot up his neck, protesting such sudden movement after a long time spent in the same awkward position. He pressed the heels of his hands hard against his eyes, then peered out, hoping to make better sense of the situation.

This was not his house...because he didn't live in his house anymore...it should be Brian's, but it wasn't...oh, that coffee smelled good...

"Hello."

He spun around, his muscles' response to the burst of activity no more positive than it had been the first time. "Assumpta!" Unconsciously he looked down. He was still fully clothed. Not one of his dreams, then.

She snorted. "Oh, believe me, Sleeping Beauty, you'd remember if I'd taken advantage of you. Here, have some coffee." She held a steaming mug out to him.

The pieces were starting to fall into place. So he was in Fitzgerald's, on the sofa in the reception area. All indications were that he'd been there all night. Oh, God. Had he missed mass? Father Mac would kill him!

"What time is it?" he demanded, looking wildly around for a clock. Again his neck protested with a sharp dagger of pain. He clamped a hand to it.

"Peter, relax." Assumpta looked maddeningly calm, amused even. She clearly didn't understand the gravity of the situation. "First of all, it's only a quarter past seven. You're not missing mass. Second of all, it's only a disaster to miss mass if you're the priest. You're not the priest anymore, remember?"

Peter's green eyes finally came into focus. He let out his breath in relief and collapsed against the sofa cushions. Assumpta offered him the mug again and this time he accepted gratefully, wrapping his fingers around the warmth of the crockery and inhaling the fragrant steam.

She sank into a chair opposite and tucked her feet up under her, balancing her own cup in one hand. Having stopped panicking, Peter could now appreciate her properly. She wore loose pajama pants and some sort of lovely strappy top. Her face was relaxed and flushed, and her hair fell in waves onto her bare shoulders. She tilted her head and studied him, her eyes twinkling in amusement.

"Are you always like this in the morning?"

"No," Peter retorted. "Only when I wake up in a strange place."

Assumpta raised an eyebrow. "And this happens to you a lot?"

"Not, recently, no. I kind of like it, though." He grinned at her over his coffee cup. "I was having this dream..."

"Apparently!"

"Stop it, you...about Father Mac..."

"You're dreaming about Father Mac? That can't be good."

Peter chuckled. "No, it's not. I used to have awful dreams about him...nightmares, really. This time I must have just been thinking about him because of what happened last night...Oh! I never..."

"No," Assumpta responded archly, "you didn't. 'Later,' he says, and then proceeds to fall asleep without saying a word. You would have had a rude awakening if Niamh hadn't been bursting to tell!"

"Niamh?" Peter echoed, surprised. "How did Niamh know?"

Assumpta shrugged. "She heard from Kathleen, who's counting herself single-handedly responsible for the salvation of St. Joseph's. Bringing in a nice Irish boy and all, you know."

Peter rolled his eyes. "Last time I checked it was still the bishop who appoints priests, not Kathleen."

"Don't ask me," Assumpta replied. "I have a feeling Niamh and Siobhan were in on it too, somehow, but neither of them will fess up." She sipped her coffee thoughtfully. "I suppose after dealing with you for three years, Father Mac'll be glad to have someone he can keep a tighter rein on."

"Maybe. Maybe not," Peter mused. "Timmy's his own man, I'd say."

"Well," said Assumpta mischievously, "Let's just hope he's better with churches than he is with cars."

Peter winced again, not from the pain in his neck this time. "You had to bring up the Javelin!"

* * *

"Leave me at Padraig's, would you?" Peter asked as Siobhan's truck rumbled back into town that afternoon. They'd just been to the Rourke farm to check on Declan's mare's leg, which was healing up nicely, thanks in part to the excellent care it was receiving from Declan and another boy who, to Peter's pleased surprise, turned out to be Cullen Murray.

Watching Cullen with the horse it was hard to imagine him as the ringleader Declan had described. His natural affinity for the animal and his skill in handling her were obvious, even to Peter, who tried hard not to feel annoyed by the condescending attitude Cullen adopted with him. The boy probably needed something to feel confident about.

Siobhan stopped the truck in front of O'Kelly's Garage, and Peter jumped down from the cab and turned to look for Padraig. He found him with his head and shoulders under the bonnet of Peter's red car.

"What's the prognosis?" Peter asked.

Padraig emerged, wiped his hands on the rag in his back pocket and prodded the car's battery with a screwdriver. "Well," he said a bit stiffly, "it needs more than a new battery. Might be corrosion on the terminals. I'll give them a scrub and see if that solves the problem."

Peter nodded. "Listen, Padraig, I owe you an apology. I should have filled you in on...things...before Brendan beat me to it. I'm sorry."

The mechanic stared stonily at a point somewhere over Peter's shoulder. "Yeah," he said with a sigh. He tossed the screwdriver aside and slammed the car's bonnet closed. "Have you got a minute? I'd like to show you something."

He led Peter to the staircase at the rear of the garage. Peter, nearly a full head taller than Padraig, had to duck his head going through the door at the top, but the room it opened on was spacious. He looked at Padraig incredulously. "How did I live in this town for three years and never know this was up here?"

Padraig walked to the window, cleared the dust from the sill with a rag he pulled from his back pocket. "I try to forget it's here myself. How much have you heard about Fionnuala...my wife?"

"Not much. Just that she left shortly after Kevin was born."

Padraig barked a harsh laugh. "Well, that's the main plot point, anyway." He turned to face Peter, who leaned against a doorway to listen. "I met Fionnuala when I was working a job in Dublin. Spent the better part of a month trying to get her to go out with me and the better part of the next six months trying to get her to marry me."

Peter smiled.

"So, finally she agreed and we came back here to set up housekeeping. A year or so later, Kevin came along. Life couldn't have been better, from my point of view." He shook his head. Peter waited. "Well, just before Kevin was to turn two, Fionnuala's mum took sick. She spent some time in hospital and after that she seemed to need more and more help. Fionnuala was always going off to do this or that for her. So, I thought, wouldn't it be grand if her mum lived closer – we could help her out, she'd get to know Kevin, Fionnuala wouldn't have to be away so much – and I fixed this place up for her."

"Ah," Peter looked around him with new understanding.

"Nobody else seemed to think much of my brilliant plan – for the life of me I couldn't understand why they weren't more supportive. Turns out they all suspected what she was up to. Nobody but me was much surprised when she left."

Peter felt a flare of anger at this woman he'd never met. "And you with a toddler to raise."

"Yeah," Padraig chuckled ruefully. "As if I knew anything about _that_. We've done all right, though, Kevin and me. I honestly don't think about it that much. But one thing that always brings it all back is being in the dark about something everyone else seems to know all about."

"I'm sorry," Peter said again.

Padraig took a deep breath and blew it out. When he spoke again, the anger was gone from his voice.

"Ah, forget it." He straightened his shoulders and looked around him. "I suppose what I really ought to do is move on and put this place to some use." He turned a shrewd eye on Peter. "I don't suppose you know of anyone looking for a place to rent in Ballykea?"

* * *

Saturday night at Fitzgerald's was nearly as busy as Friday and, without the extra help Assumpta had brought in for grand-reopening she and Peter and Niamh were run ragged filling orders and busing tables. But, when they collapsed exhausted to divy up the tips after last orders, they found the jar full to overflowing.

"I never knew running a pub could actually be profitable," Assumpta quipped as she pocketed her share.

"Don't get used to it. Once the novelty wears off you'll be stuck with the regulars again," Siobhan advised.

Assumpta cringed. "Couldn't you just let me enjoy it while it lasts, Siobhan?"

"Never mind, Assumpta," Brendan said soothingly. "She's just in a mood. It's not easy sitting here all night behind a glass of club orange when there are so many other fine choices."

Siobhan turned on him. "And you'd know about that how, exactly? Maybe it only seems like I'm 'in a mood' because I'm not talking through a drunken haze like the rest of you."

"I haven't had a drop all night!" Niamh exclaimed self-righteously.

"Me either," chimed in Peter.

"I've been swilling it down like there's no tomorrow, but I can hold my liquor better than the rest of you lot," Assumpta joked. "Siobhan, you'd be welcome to lend a hand behind the bar, since you can't drink anyway."

"Thanks anyway, Assumpta, but I'd rather work with a herd of cows than a bunch of drunks any day of the week."

Padraig leaned forward to look across Siobhan at Brendan. "I believe she just insulted us," he observed, feigning indignation.

"Ah, she doesn't mean it," Brendan replied. "Come on, Siobhan, we'll see you home."

When they had gone, Assumpta looked around the bar and groaned. "I didn't know I even owned this many glasses. I'm going to leave the washing up for morning – let's just get them into the kitchen."

Niamh stood up from her chair slowly, holding her back. "I don't know if I can take another night like this!"

"Think of the tips," Assumpta advised. "Anyway, tomorrow's Sunday. It'll never be as busy as this."

And it wasn't...quite. Still, when Father Mac came in shortly after eight, he had to elbow his way through customers to reach the only vacant seat at the bar. "Tea, Father?" Peter asked

"Whiskey, I think," the priest answered, gazing around with a mix of distaste and admiration. "Look at this place!" he continued, as Peter placed a glass in front of him. "Where did they all come from?"

Peter shook his head. "I don't know. There are lots of folks here I've never met, that's for sure."

"Nor me," agreed the parish priest. "Well, you probably have a better chance of getting acquainted with them here than at St. Joseph's."

Peter chuckled. "I guess I'd better go and do that, then." He was just about to move on to the next order when he spotted Declan Rourke struggling through the crowd of punters looking flushed and out of breath.

"I'm sorry to bother you, Father," he panted, arriving at Father Mac's elbow.

Father Mac turned toward him. "Not at all, my boy," he said heartily. "What can I do for you?"

"Oh!" Declan looked from Father Mac to Peter, flushing even deeper red. "Sorry, Father...I meant, em...Peter."

"Of course you did," sighed Father Mac, rolling his eyes and turning back to his drink.

Somewhere behind him, Peter heard Assumpta's signature snort. He hoped Father Mac had not. "What's going on, Declan?"

The boy had partly caught his breath, now, but his words still out in gasps. "I was just at the Youth Center with Cullen...it's closed, I know, but we were...washing off the grafitti...I told Cullen I'd help him...only the Gard's there and he doesn't believe us..."

"All right," said Peter calmly. "Take a breath. Do you want me to come and have a word with him?"

Declan looked immensely relieved. "That'd be great...I mean, if you don't mind."

Peter looked around for Assumpta and found her standing in the kitchen doorway, watching the scene with a knowing gaze and a half-smile playing around her mouth. "Go on, then" she said throwing up her hands in resignation, "only don't be too long or Niamh and I will split your tips!"

"Thanks," Peter shot her a smile that made her blood sing and then disappeared out the door behind Declan. As Assumpta watched them go, Niamh squeezed past her with an order of crisps.

"You may have taken that boy out of the church," she said under her breath to Assumpta, "but you'll never take the church out of the boy."


	21. What Goes Around

"You've got to be joking!"

Siobhan tossed a crate of supplies into the back of her truck and wheeled to face Peter. She'd felt cranky all weekend, her back hurt, there had been four calls waiting on her machine this morning – all off in different directions, of course – and now this? She planted her hands on her hips and glared. "How did _I _get dragged into this?"

"Well, I had to do something," Peter protested. He leaned his bike against Siobhan's fence and bent to untie his trainers. "Ambrose was about to charge him with vandalism and trespass, just when he was cleaning up his act..._and_ the grafitti. It could have gone on his permanent record."

"So?"

Peter gave her a reproachful look. "Come on, Siobhan. You're telling me you never made a mistake when you were that age?"

"I'm telling you I don't see how it's my problem if some hoodlum Dublin transplant has."

"You'll be doing a good thing."

"That's your hobby, Peter, not mine! I'm a veterinarian – not a social worker and not a babysitter. And I don't _need_ an assistant. I have you."

"Cullen can work after school and on Saturdays, when I'm needed in the pub." Peter pulled on the work boots he'd borrowed from Brendan and began to lace them up. "He's good with animals, Siobhan. Better than I am, that's for sure. You saw him yourself up at the Rourkes'."

Siobhan sighed in exasperation and slammed the truck door hard enough to make the whole vehicle vibrate. "From what I hear, he's also good at picking fights and starting trouble." She made her way to the cab and Peter, after hurriedly tying his boots, jogged around to the passenger side.

"He's a kid, Siobhan. He just needs another chance. Try it for a week."

Siobhan turned the key and rammed the truck into gear. She turned a piercing stare on Peter. "One week. And it'll be a lucky day for you if I don't sack you _both_ after that."

* * *

The stragglers from Fitzgerald's Monday lunch crowd were just pushing their chairs back from their tables when Brian breezed through the door.

"Sure, there's no place on God's earth lovelier than Ballykissangel in springtime!" he declared to the world in general, sweeping off his hat and sliding onto the stool next to Brendan. "Another of whatever this gentleman's drinking, Assumpta, and bring me one of the same."

Brendan, who had been just about to return to school to prepare for his afternoon classes, consulted his watch, shrugged, and pushed his glass toward Assumpta.

"Good trip, then, Brian?"

"You might say so. You might indeed," Quigley answered heartily, "and it's yourself I have to thank."

"Me?" Brendan reached for the fresh pint Assumpta had just placed before him, glancing sideways at Brian.

"Mmm," Brian nodded, drinking deeply of his own stout. "You and your partners in crime."

Brendan raised an eyebrow at Assumpta, who shrugged blankly and shook her head. Brian, for his part, didn't seem in any hurry to offer further explanation. He took another drink and settled more comfortably on his seat with a self-satisfied sigh.

Assumpta rolled her eyes. "Well?"

"Well, what?"

"Are going to tell us what you've got up your sleeve or should we go on about our business?"

Brian shot her a wry look. "Suddenly she's an advocate of full disclosure." Color flared into Assumpta's cheeks, and she glared at him. He chuckled. "Oh, get down off your high horse, would you? There's nothing up my sleeve...unless you count the deal that's going to put this town back on the map."

"Damn," Assumpta said, turning to Brendan, "Fallen off again, have we?"

"I haven't checked recently," Brendan replied. "What's the deal this time, Brian?"

"Well," a gleam came into the businessman's eyes and he leaned forward conspiratorially, his forearms resting on the bar. "It's not exactly a secret that I've had no luck at all getting anyone to back that development up at Kilnashee. Running that road around the wood put me deep in a hole, and when the deal with the Koreans fell through I figured the gig was up. Might as well start selling off assets and call it quits. Then a couple of weeks ago I came across a piece about green travel in a trade journal."

"Green travel?" echoed Assumpta, picking up a bar rag and starting to wipe glasses.

Brian waved a hand. "Natural wonders, save the environment, that sort of thing. Anyway, this article mentioned an English ecotourism outfit looking to establish some locations within Europe. Nothing to lose, I figured, so I called them up and pitched Ballykissangel. Lo and behold, they agreed to meet with me this weekend in Dublin. Liked what they heard well enough that they're sending someone down here for a couple of days to take a look at the site." Brian slapped both palms on the bar and reached for his drink. "_That's_ the sort of deal we're talking about!"

Brendan eyed him skeptically. "I though all those tours went to Costa Rica or Madagascar or somewhere."

"We're no Costa Rica," Assumpta put in.

"Well, sure, if you can afford to go halfway around the world, but apparently there's a whole market of tree...er...green travelers of more limited means. That's why this agency's trying to develop locations closer to home."

"And why Ballykissangel?" Brendan pressed.

Brian ticked off on his fingers. "Natural beauty, outdoor recreation, local culture, an economy that could use a boost. From their perspective, it's a perfect fit."

"You've convinced them Ballykea has all those things?" Assumpta asked. Despite her prior experience with Brian's business schemes, she felt a reluctant spark of excitement.

"Well, I figure we've got the first and the last in spades and should be able to dig up the other two if we put our minds to it," Quigley grinned. "And get this, Brendan: what really won them over was hearing about how I relocated that road in order to save the squirrels..."

"Badgers," Brendan interrupted.

"Squirrels, badgers...could be wallabies for all I care. But _they _ate it up! And when I told them I knew a local wildlife expert who'd be glad to lead them on a little nature walk while they're here, maybe catch sight of some of the varmints... It was beautiful. Beautiful!"

Brendan's forehead furrowed suspiciously. "What local wildlife expert?"

"The one who was so concerned about the badgers in the first place, of course."

"Oh, no," Brendan shook his head vehemently. "Absolutely not."

"Ah, come on," Brian coaxed.

"I'm not your salesman, Brian!"

"Nobody's asking you to sell anything, for God's sake! Just take them for a walk in the woods,."

"No!"

"Don't you think it's the least you can do after that business with the bones at the worksite?"

Assumpta hid a smile behind her hand. "Thought you just said that building the road around the wood was the real selling point."

Brian ignored her.

"The bones were Peter's idea, anyway," Brendan grumbled.

"Yeah, well, I've got a different job for him. Come on, Brendan. Just say you'll think about it. This is the future of the town we're talking about."

"All right, all right, I'll think about it," Brendan sighed, "Now stop laying it on so thick. I'm nearly up to my knees already."

"Good man!" Brian exclaimed, clapping Brendan on the shoulder and turning his attention behind the bar. "Now, Assumpta, what can you do in terms of local culture?"

She started. "What? Why am_ I_ in charge of culture?"

"I'll bet he wants a revival of _Ryan's Mother_," Brendan suggested with a twinkle.

"No, no, no," Brian said impatiently. "What we need here is something quintessentially Irish. Live music in the pub – that sort of thing."

"No chance." Assumpta shook her head. "I'm sorry, Brian, but I didn't even have live music for my re-opening. It's too expensive."

"We're not talking U2 here, Assumpta. Just a couple of fellows with a fiddle and bodhrain. You could afford that, surely."

"Where's Con O'Neill when you need him?" Brendan chimed in again, in much better spirits now that Brian had found someone new to pick on.

Assumpta shot him a look. "I thought you said you had to get back to school."

Brendan smiled genially. "Ah, but that was when my glass was empty."

She turned back to Brian. "When are these people coming? And how many are there going to be?"

"It's just one fellow, actually. He's due to come in tomorrow night. I'll tour him around on Wednesday, let him watch the match, bring him back here for the victory party afterward..."

"Assuming you win," Brendan interjected.

"For the _victory _party," Brian repeated stubbornly. "Picture it, Assumpta. Spirits are riding high, the stout's flowing, a reel's playing in the background...who could resist it?"

"So," Assumpta said, "just so I have this straight, you want me to hire live musicians for the benefit of one person?"

Brian leaned across the bar. "For the benefit of the _town, _I'm telling you. That one person could bring in years' worth of business!"

Assumpta narrowed her eyes and studied him for a long moment. Finally she sighed. "I swear to God, Brian, if this is another fiasco I'll expect reimbursement."

Brian laughed darkly and drained his glass. "Believe me when I tell you, Assumpta, if this is a fiasco you'll be in far better financial straights than I will."

* * *

Having seen the last lingering students off home, Brendan sat on the bench outside Fitzgerald's, a sack of groceries he'd just purchased at Kathleen's at his feet, pondering Quigley's latest scheme. He held the _Independent_, folded to the crossword, but he had yet to put pencil to paper. He was watching for Siobhan's truck.

When it rumbled up, he tucked away his paper, hefted the grocery sack and pulled the passenger door open, clapping Peter on the shoulder as he climbed down. "Peter," he said, by way of greeting. "Siobhan."

"What do you want?" Siobhan seemed no cheerier than when Brendan had last seen her.

Ignoring her question, he climbed into the seat that Peter had just vacated.

"Where do you think you're going?" she demanded, glaring at him.

"Your place," Brendan replied evenly.

"Oh, right. That went so well the last time."

Brendan chuckled. "There you are, then; it can only get better. I'm going to cook you dinner and tell you a story."

"What am I, five? And since when do you cook?"

"I'm a very good cook, I'll have you know. How do you think I've survived on my own all these years?"

"Em, by eating most of your meals at the pub and drinking the rest?"

"Well," said Brendan, settling back into the seat. "That just goes to show how much you know. Now, are you going to drive or shall I?"

She scowled at him, but shifted the truck into gear and pulled away from the curb. Brendan held back a smile. First hurdle cleared.

Siobhan maintained a stony silence as she drove down the main street, but as they crossed the bridge, her curiosity got the better of her. "All right, so what's the story?"

"Ah, _well,_" Brendan paused for dramatic effect. "Brian's back in town."

Siobhan sniffed dismissively. "Good for him."

"Maybe," Brendan mused. "It's good for all of us, he says. Wait 'til you hear what he's up to now."


	22. Chances Are

"Peter – a word, please."

Father Mac's voice stopped Peter in his tracks, thwarting his efforts to slip inconspicuously out of morning mass and down to the pub for a cup of coffee. Instead, he withdrew awkwardly into a corner of the narthex, hoping to avoid any confusion among the congregants over whether they were meant to greet the ex-curate on their way out of church.

When the last of the faithful few had been waved on their way, Father Mac's smile of benevolent piety relaxed into a more natural expression. He motioned to Peter. "Walk with me."

Peter followed him down the side aisle of the church and into the sacristy. He hadn't been inside the little room since his farewell to the congregation, and its familiar sights and smells immediately settled around him like old friends. Candles and incense and ancient paper and ink; St. Joseph's lovely silver chalice, with the light from the little window glinting off its rim; his own vestments still hanging on a peg as though he might simply slip back into them. He drew a slow, unsteady breath.

Father Mac, who was removing the stole from around his neck, glanced sharply at Peter and raised an eyebrow. "Not having second thoughts, are we, Mr. Clifford?"

Peter swallowed hard. _"_No," he said firmly.

Father Mac fixed a piercing gaze on him, then, seemingly satisfied with what he saw, nodded. "Well, then. The reason I asked to speak to you is that the bishop has asked to see us both on the matter of your request for dispensation. I have the impression that he wants to make sure your decision was not based on whatever disagreements may have lain between us in the past."

"You know that's not the case," Peter said.

"_I _do, yes," agreed Father Mac, "but it seems His Grace may have some doubts. And he has some standard questions he's required to ask of you before he can send your request on to Rome."

"All right."

"We're expected in Wicklow at two o'clock this afternoon," Father Mac went on. He shrugged into his black jacket, buttoned it and walked back out into the sanctuary, standing back to let Peter pass before firmly closing the door to the sacristy. "Why don't you pick me up at the parish church and we'll go on from there?"

Peter groaned inwardly. Had Father Mac just received this news from the bishop, he wondered, or had he been holding onto it, waiting to pull a last power play on Peter? Not that it really made a difference; Peter had too much at stake to risk angering the bishop. He would have to go.

"I wish I could," he said, keeping his face carefully neutral, "but I'm without a car again. Padraig's had mine down at his place for close to a week now."

Father Mac rolled his eyes."Why doesn't that surprise me? All right, we'll take my car. I'll see you at a quarter past one."

* * *

Siobhan pushed open the door to her spare room and groaned.

Behind her, Assumpta craned her neck to peer over her friend's shoulder. "Good Lord, Siobhan. What _is_ all this stuff?"

"Everything I didn't know what else to do with for the past fifteen years," Siobhan replied. She picked up a copy of the _Irish Veterinary Journal _from the top of the pile closest to her and tossed it down again, sending up a cloud of dust. "I don't see why I can't just put a cot in the corner of the kitchen."

"Well, you can't." Niamh squeezed past them, depositing Kieran in Assumpta's arms. "You'll need a place for all the baby's things." She picked her way among piles of books, odd pieces of furniture and shadeless lamps to the window and threw open the striped draperies allowing sunlight to stream in. "Look at that. It'll make a lovely nursery once it's cleared out and painted. Light blue, don't you think? Or yellow?"

Siobhan groaned again.

Niamh's eyes sparked with enthusiasm. "Don't worry. We'd love to help you get it fixed up. Wouldn't we Assumpta?"

"Em..." Assumpta looked doubtfully around at the dusty jumble filling the room.

Niamh glared at her. "_Wouldn't _we?"

Assumpta sighed. "Yeah, fine," she agreed.

Niamh was off, planning aloud. "Ambrose has a day off on Saturday. I'll get him to shift all this stuff into the barn. We'll get Brendan and Peter to paint – they were brilliant when we did Kathleen's house. It'll be a good chance for Brendan to feel involved."

"I doubt if physical labor is the kind of involvement he's looking for," Assumpta commented drily.

Niamh sniffed disdainfully. "If he thinks _this_ is labor, wait until he sees..."

"Niamh!" Assumpta exclaimed, looking pointedly at Siobhan, who had located a bare spot on the bed and sunk down on it, looking hopeless and slightly green.

"Sees what?" demanded Siobhan, a note of hysteria in her voice.

"Next year's crop of fourth years," Assumta said firmly. She bounced Kieran in her arms. "You know, Siobhan, Peter might take some of this extra furniture off your hands."

"Why?" Niamh asked, successfully distracted from the subject of childbirth, "Is he moving out of Dad's place?"

"It's nothing definite," Assumpta answered, "but Padraig's offered to rent him the room over the garage."

"The one he built for Fionnuala's mother?" Niamh said incredulously. "I didn't think he ever set foot in there."

"Leave it to Peter," Siobhan remarked, with a touch of bitterness. "He's got some sort of special powers, that man, always getting people to do things they swore they'd never do." A glint of mischief appeared in her eyes. "Isn't that right, Assumpta?"

* * *

It was barely eleven as Dan left his favorite cafe and crossed Albert Square back towards Town Hall, but it already felt like quitting time. He'd been staying with his mother since she'd come home from hospital, which made sense, since Jamie had Ellie and the kids to worry about and he had only himself. But it was taking its toll. The commute to work was longer than the one from his flat, and he'd been sleeping fitfully, startling awake at every sound from Mary's room. And he hadn't talked to Rose since the weekend, a fact that bothered him more than it seemed like it ought to.

Balancing a paper coffee cup in each hand, Dan carefully nudged the heavy glass door open with his shoulder and crossed the lobby to the elevators. He pushed the button for the fourth floor, home to Manchester's Environmental Services department and his own small office, made even smaller by the presence of an intern named Libby with whom he'd been sharing space since her arrival three weeks earlier.

"There you are," he announced, setting one of the cups down on the only bare spot on Libby's desk. "Lots of milk, no sugar, right?"

Libby looked up from her computer screen, blinking as though coming out of a dim room into the light. She pried the lid off the cup and peered inside.

"Thanks," she said. "I'll need it if I'm going to get through these last two pages."

Dan nodded sympathetically. "Any calls?" he asked, squeezing around the end of Libby's desk to reach his own.

"Oh, yeah." Libby had already returned to the data she was entering into the computer, and her preoccupied tone told Dan he'd never have heard the phone message unless he'd specifically asked. "That guy from the Cycling Campaign. What's his name...White?"

"Woolf," Dan supplied, sipping his coffee. "We have a meeting later on."

"No... you don't," Libby said absently, her eyes still on the screen. "He's been sent to Ireland for work this week. He's going call when he gets back."

"Oh, yeah?" Dan felt an anxious twinge in his stomach. "Did he say where in Ireland?"

The intern glanced up, looking vaguely annoyed. "No. Does it matter?"

"No," Dan said quickly. "Just curious."

She sighed impatiently and returned to her work. Dan suddenly felt edgy. He carried his coffee to the window and stood looking out at the street below.

_Don't be daft_, he chided himself. _Ballykissangel's not the only town in Ireland. He's not going to run into Peter._

What were the odds?

* * *

Assumpta switched off the new, obnoxiously bright fluorescent lighting in her basement storeroom and climbed the steps into the relative dimness of the pub, calculating the next week's order in her head. She had about a barrel and a half of stout left, and the way business had been going she'd need two each for Friday and Saturday night, plus three for the rest of the week...

"Hello."

Startled, Assumpta lost hold of the basement door and it fell closed with a bang. She whirled around, clutching a hand to her chest, and spotted a young man standing in the reception area. He was wiry with closely cropped dark hair and carried a backpack slung across one shoulder. "You just about gave me a heart attack!" Assumpta scolded.

"Sorry," the newcomer said contritely, glancing around the empty bar. "Is this a bad time? I can come back..."

"No, no," Assumpta responded quickly, coming out from behind the bar. "It's fine. What can I do for you?"

"I think you have a room reserved for me," the man told her. "Name's Woolf...Sam Woolf, but the reservation would have been made by Brian Quigley."

"Oh!" Assumpta exclaimed. She gritted her teeth. _So much for making a good first impression. _Recovering her professional demeanor, she smiled at the guest. "Right. For two nights, isn't it?"

"That's right." Sam looked around the pub as Assumpta pulled out her reservation book. "Nice place you've got here."

"Thanks," Assumpta pushed the book forward and handed him a pen. "I've just finished some unplanned renovations thanks to an electrical fire a couple of weeks ago."

"Oh yeah?" Sam paused with the pen in the air.

"Oh, don't worry," Assumpta said quickly. "The wiring's all been redone since then."

"Right." Sam gave her a quick grin and scribbled his name in the spot she indicated. "Well, the place looks great."

She selected a key from the row of hooks on the wall and handed it to him. "Unfortunately, you'll find that the renovations don't extend to the guest rooms, but I hope you'll be comfortable. You're the third door on the right."

"Thanks." Sam turned for the stairs, then doubled back. "Oh – do you know how I can get ahold of Mr. Quigley? I just need to let him know I've arrived."

Out of the corner of her eye, Assumpta glimpsed a figure in a tweed jacket and hat speedwalking past the window..

"No need," she told Sam, gesturing toward the door. "He's already heard."

Sam's eyebrows shot up. "That was fast."

Assumpta chuckled. "Welcome to Ballykissangel," she said.

* * *

The ancient white bus rattled to a stop in front of Hendley's shop.

Peter nodded his thanks and descended the steps, too tired to correct the driver's cheerful, "Good evening, Father." The audience with the bishop had left him feeling, as his mother sometimes said, as though he'd been through the wringer.

Assumpta was clearing a table near the door when he arrived at the pub. She looked up from her work and frowned, trying to read in his face how the meeting had gone. "You look knackered," she observed quietly. "Anything wrong?"

"Not really." He managed a half-smile he hoped would pass for reassuring. "I'll tell you later."

A jovial summons from across the room intensified the pounding in his head. "Peter...just the man! Come and say hello to someone from your old stomping ground!"

"Oh, no," Peter groaned. He'd forgotten that Brian's business associate would have arrived by now. He looked pleadingly at Assumpta, who shrugged in resignation.

"Your public awaits."

"Thanks a lot," Peter said drily.

The corner table, where Brian was holding court alongside his guest, was already well populated with locals. Peter crossed the room, pasting on a smile as he went. From the looks of things, Brian had interrupted Eamonn in the middle of a story. "As I was sayin'," the farmer went on, fixing a reproachful gaze on Quigley, "they were havin' none of it. They fell on the whole lot of 'em, and knocked one poor fellow's teeth clean out, and him a follower of Saint Patrick himself." Eamonn paused to cross himself before continuing. "And_ that_ is how it came to be called Cill Mhantáin." He nodded emphatically and addressed himself to the glass of soda in front of him.

Sam's brow furrowed in confusion and he looked around the table for help. Michael Ryan, seated across from him, came to the rescue.

"It means,'the church of the toothless one'," he explained helpfully. "Now better known as Wicklow."

"Ah," Sam's face cleared. "Well, I'm glad newcomers get a warmer welcome than that nowadays!"

"Speaking of which," Brian spoke up heartily, "Peter Clifford, meet Sam Woolf. Shove down, there, Padraig, and make a spot for Peter."

Peter held out his hand to Sam, who rose halfway out of his seat to clasp it. There was a general shuffling of chairs and Peter pulled a seat for himself into the ensuing empty spot between Brian and Sam.

"Clifford..." Sam mused, turning an appraising gaze on Peter as he settled in his chair. "You're not related to Dan Clifford, are you?"

"I actually do have a brother by that name," replied Peter, "but it's a fairly common one. I don't suppose he's the only one in town."

"What does your brother do for a living, if you don't mind my asking?"

"He works for the city." Peter smiled his thanks as Assumpta placed a glass of lager in front of him. "Environmental Services, or something like that."

"That's the one!" Sam's dark eyes lit with pleasure. "I thought I saw a resemblance. Dan and I have been working on a sustainable transit project together – promoting bicycle commuting."

Padraig nudged Brendan with his elbow. "Must be genetic," he said out of the corner of his mouth.

Peter cast his eyes upwards, shaking his head helplessly. "Here it comes."

"What?" Sam asked, looking from Peter to Padraig.

"Well,"said Padraig, eyes twinkling, "our Peter, here, came to Ireland expecting to get around by mountain bike just like he had in Manchester. Didn't even have a driver's license."

"For good reason," Assumpta commented, reaching past Sam's shoulder to clear the empty glasses and plates from the table.

"It worked out fine until he had a deathbed call at the top of the mountain in the wee hours of his first night here," Brendan added.

"A deathbed call?" repeated Sam. "That sounds serious. Isn't there an ambulance around?"

"There is," Michael replied, "but it comes from Cilldargen. It's not exactly rapid response."

"And it doesn't give last rites." Brendan's comment drew guffaws from Michael and Padraig and a scowl from Brian, who felt the conversation slipping out of his control. Assumpta delivered a sharp smack to the side of Brendan's head on her way back to the bar.

"Last rites?" Sam looked thoroughly confused.

"Only a priest can do that," Eamonn told him earnestly.

Peter shook his head and closed his eyes. Brian's scowl darkened.

"Peter was the priest, you see," Padraig explained,obviously enjoying himself. He looked around to make sure he was out of Assumpta's reach. "But he's recently come to his senses."

"The priest. Huh." Sam regarded Peter with interest as a second wave of laughter rose and fell. "Well, it really is a small world, isn't it? Dan and I actually had a meeting set for this afternoon that I had to cancel. I felt bad, because we'd already rescheduled once. We were originally supposed to meet last week when your mum was in hospital."

A sudden silence fell over the table. The only remaining sound was Peter's strangled gasp as he tried not to choke on his lager.


End file.
